THE   NOVELS  OF 
IVAN    TURGENEV 


THE    NOVELS    OF 
IVAN    TURGENEV 


I.    RUDIN. 
II.   A  HOUSE  OF  GENTLEFOLK. 

III.  ON  THE  EVE. 

IV.  FATHERS  AND  CHILDREN. 
V.   SMOKE. 

VI.  &  VII.  VIRGIN  SOIL.      2  vols. 
VIII.  &  IX.  A  SPORTSMAN'S  SKETCHES.    2  vols. 
X.   DREAM  TALES  AND  PROSE  POEMS. 
XL   THE  TORRENTS  OF  SPRING,  ETC. 
XII.   A  LEAR  OF  THE  STEPPES. 

XIII.  THE   DIARY    OF    A    SUPERFLUOUS 

MAN,  ETC. 

XIV.  A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER,  ETC. 
XV.   THE  JEW,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:   WILLIAM  HEINEMANN 


THE   NOVELS    OF    IVAN    TURGENEV 

A   DESPERATE 
CHARACTER 

ETC. 

TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  RUSSIAN 

By 

CONSTANCE  GARNETT 


^ 


NEW  YORK:  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

LONDON:    WILLIAM   HEINEMANN 
MCMXX 


Printed  in  Great  Britain 


MA!NJ  LFSRARY 


l&^^.J^'^^ 


TO 

JOSEPH  CONRAD 

WHOSE  ART  IN  ESSENCE 

OFTEN  RECALLS 

THE  ART  AND  ESSENCE  OF 

TURGENEV 


S9328 


INTRODUCTION 


The  six  tales  now  translated  for  the  English 
reader  were  written  by  Turgenev  at  various 
dates  between  1847  and  188 1.  Their  chrono- 
logical order  is : — 


Fyetushkov, .         .         .         . 

.       1847 

The  Brigadier,      . 

.       1867 

A  Strange  Story,  . 

1869 

Punin  and  Baburin, 

.       1874 

Old  Portraits, 

.       1881 

A  Desperate  Character, 

.       1881 

Pyetushkov  is  the  work  of  a  young  man  of 
twenty-nine,  and  its  lively,  unstrained  realism 
is  so  bold,  intimate,  and  delicate  as  to  contra- 
dict the  flattering  compliment  that  the  French 
have  paid  to  one  another — that  Turgenev  had 
need  to  dress  his  art  by  the  aid  of  French 
mirrors. 

Although  Pyetushkov  shows  us,  by  a  certain 
open  naivete  of  style,  that  a  youthful  hand 
is  at  work,  it  is  the  hand  of  a  young  master, 
vii 


INTRODUCTION 

carrying  out  the  realism  of  the  'forties  * — that  of 
Gogol,  Balzac,  and  Dickens — straightway,  with 
finer  point,  to  find  a  perfect  equilibrium  free 
from  any  bias  or  caricature.  The  whole  strength 
and  essence  of  the  realistic  method  has  been 
developed  in  Pyetushkov  to  its  just  limits.  The 
Russians  are  instinctive  realists,  and  carry  the 
warmth  of  life  into  their  pages,  which  warmth 
the  French  seem  to  lose  in  clarifying  their 
impressions  and  crystallising  them  in  art. 
Pyetushkov  is  not  exquisite :  it  is  irresistible. 
Note  how  the  reader  is  transported  bodily 
into  Pyetushkov's  stuffy  room,  and  how  the 
major  fairly  boils  out  of  the  two  pages  he 
lives  in !  (pp.  301,  302).  That  is  realism  if 
you  like.  A  woman  will  see  the  point  of  Pye- 
tushkov very  quickly.  Onisim  and  Vassilissa 
and  the  aunt  walk  and  chatter  around  the 
stupid  Pyetushkov,  and  glance  at  him  signi- 
ficantly in  a  manner  that  reveals  everything 
about  these  people's  world.  All  the  servants 
who  appear  in  the  tales  in  this  volume  are 
hit  off  so  marvellously  that  one  sees  the  lower- 
class  world,  which  is  such  a  mystery  to  certain 
refined  minds,  has  no  secrets  for  Turgenev. 

Of  a  different,  and  to  our  taste  more  fascinat- 
ing, genre  is   The  Brigadier.     It  is  greater  art 
viii 


INTRODUCTION 

because  life's  prosaic  growth  is  revealed  not 
merely  realistically,  but  also  poetically,  life  as  a 
tiny  part  of  the  great  universe  around  it.  The 
tale  is  a  microcosm  of  Turgenev's  own  nature ; 
his  love  of  Nature,  his  tender  sympathy  for 
all  humble,  ragged,  eccentric,  despised  human 
creatures  ;  his  unfaltering  keenness  of  gaze  into 
character,  his  fine  sense  of  proportion,  mingle 
in  The  Brigadier^  to  create  for  us  a  sense  of 
the  pitiableness  of  man's  tiny  life,  of  the  mere 
human  seed  which  springs  and  spreads  a  while 
on  earth,  and  dies  under  the  menacing  gaze 
of  the  advancing  years.  *  Out  of  the  sweetness 
came  forth  strength '  is  perhaps  the  best  saying 
by  which  one  can  define  Turgenev's  peculiar 
merits  in  The  Brigadier. 

Punin  and  Baburin  presents  to  us  again  one 
of  those  ragged  ones,  one  of  'the  poor  in 
spirit,'  the  idealist  Punin,  a  character  whose 
portrait  challenges  Dostoievsky's  skill  on  the 
latter's  own  ground.  That  delicious  Punin  !  and 
that  terrible  grandmother's  scene  with  Baburin! 
How  absolutely  Slav  is  the  blending  of  irony  and 
kindness  in  the  treatment  of  Punin,  Cucumber, 
and  Pyetushkov,  few  English  readers  will  under- 
stand. All  the  characters  in  Punin  and  Baburin 
are  so  strongly  drawn,  so  intensely  alive,  that, 
ix 


INTRODUCTION 

like  Rembrandt's  portraits,  they  make  the 
living  people,  who  stand  looking  at  them, 
absurdly  grey  and  lifeless  by  comparison  ! 
Baburin  is  a  Nihilist  before  the  times  of  Nihil- 
ism, he  is  a  type  of  the  strong  characters  that 
arose  later  in  the  movement  of  the  *  eighties.' 

A  pre-Nihilistic  type  is  also  the  character 
of  Sophie  in  A  Strange  Story.  But  the  chief 
value  of  this  last  psychological  study  is  that  it 
gives  the  English  mind  a  clue  to  the  funda- 
mental distinction  that  marks  off  the  Russian 
people  from  the  peoples  of  the  West.  Sophie's 
words — 'You  spoke  of  the  will — that's  what  must 
be  broken'  (p.  6i) — define  most  admirably  the 
deepest  aspiration  of  the  Russian  soul.  To  be 
lowly  and  suffering,  to  be  despised,  sick,  to  be 
under  the  lash  of  fate,  to  be  trampled  under 
foot  by  others,  to  be  unworthy,  all  this  secret 
desire  of  the  Russian  soul  implies  that  the 
Russian  has  little  will,  that  he  finds  it  easier  to 
resign  himself  than  to  make  the  effort  to  be 
powerful,  triumphant,  worthy.  It  is  from  the 
resignation  and  softness  of  the  Russian  nature 
that  all  its  characteristic  virtues  spring.  Whereas 
religion  with  the  English  mind  is  largely  an 
anxiety  to  be  moral,  to  be  right  and  righteous, 
to  be  *  a  chosen  vessel  of  the   Lord,'  religion 


INTRODUCTION 

with  the  Russian  implies  a  genuine  abasement 
and  loss  of  self,  a  bowing  before  the  will  of 
Heaven,  and  true  brotherly  love.  The  Western 
mind  rises  to  greatness  by  concentrating  the 
will-power  in  action,  by  assertion  of  all  its 
inner  force,  by  shutting  out  forcibly  whatever 
might  dominate  or  distract  or  weaken  it.  But 
the  Russian  mind,  through  its  lack  of  character, 
will-power,  and  hardness,  rises  to  greatness  in 
its  acceptance  of  life,  and  in  its  sympathy  with 
all  the  unfortunate,  the  wretched,  the  poor  in 
spirit.  Of  course  in  practical  life  the  Russian 
lacks  many  of  the  useful  virtues  the  Western 
peoples  possess  and  has  most  of  their  vices;  but 
certainly  his  pity,  charity,  and  brotherliness 
towards  men  more  unfortunate  than  himself 
largely  spring  from  his  fatalistic  acceptance  of 
his  own  unworthiness  and  weakness.  So  in 
Sophie's  case  the  desire  for  self-sacrifice,  and 
her  impregnable  conviction  that  to  suffer  and 
endure  is  rights  is  truly  Russian  in  the  sense 
of  letting  the  individuality  go  with  the  stream 
of  fate,  not  against  it.  And  hence  the 
formidable  spirit  of  the  youthful  generation 
that  sacrificed  itself  in  the  Nihilistic  move- 
ment :  the  strenuous  action  of  *  the  youth  * 
once  set  in  movement,  the  spirit  of  self-sacrifice 
xi 


INTRODUCTION 

impelled  it  calmly  towards  its  goal  despite  all 
the  forces  and  threats  of  fate.  Sophie  is 
indeed  an  early  Nihilist  born  before  her  time. 

We  have  said  that  the  lack  of  will  in  the 
Russian  nature  is  at  the  root  of  Russian  virtues 
and  vices,  and  in  this  connection  it  is  curious 
to  remark  that  a  race's  soul  seems  often  to 
grow  out  of  the  race's  aspiration  towards  what 
it  is  not  in  life.  Is  not  the  French  intellect,  for 
example,  so  cool,  clear-headed,  so  delicately 
analytic  of  its  own  motives,  that  through  the 
principle  of  counterpoise  it  strives  to  lose  itself 
and  release  itself  in  continual  rhetoric  and 
emotional  positions?  Is  not  the  German  mind 
so  alive  to  the  material  facts  of  life,  to  the  neces- 
sity of  getting  hold  of  concrete  advantages  in  life, 
and  of  not  letting  them  go,  that  it  deliberately 
slackens  the  bent  bow,  and  plunges  itself  and 
relaxes  itself  in  floods  of  abstractions,  and 
idealisations,  and  dreams  of  sentimentality? 
Assuredly  it  is  because  the  Russian  is  so 
inwardly  discontented  with  his  own  actions  that 
he  is  such  a  keen  and  incisive  critic  of  everything 
false  and  exaggerated,  that  he  despises  all  French 
rhetoric  and  German  sentimentalism.  And  in  this 
sense  it  is  that  the  Russian's  lack  of  will  comes 
in  to  deepen  his  soul.  He  surrenders  himself 
xii 


INTRODUCTION 

thereby  to  the  universe,  and,  as  do  the  Asiatics, 
does  not  let  the  tiny  shadow  of  his  fate,  dark 
though  it  may  be,  shut  out  the  universe  so 
thoroughly  from  his  consciousness,  as  does  the 
aggressive  struggling  will-power  of  the  Western 
man  striving  to  let  his  individuality  have  full 
play.  The  Russian's  attitude  may  indeed  be 
compared  to  a  bowl  which  catches  and  sustains 
what  life  brings  it ;  and  the  Western  man's  to 
a  bowl  inverted  to  ward  off  what  drops  from 
the  impassive  skies.  The  mental  attitude  of 
the  Russian  peasant  indeed  implies  that  in 
blood  he  is  nearer  akin  to  the  Asiatics  than 
Russian  ethnologists  have  wished  to  allow. 
Certainly  in  the  inner  life  of  thought,  intel- 
lectually, morally,  and  emotionally,  he  is  a 
half-way  house  between  the  Western  and 
Eastern  races,  just  as  geographically  he  spreads 
over  the  two  continents.  By  natural  law  his 
destiny  calls  him  towards  the  East.  Should 
he  one  day  spread  his  rule  further  and  further 
among  the  Asiatics  and  hold  the  keys  of  an 
immense  Asiatic  empire,  well  1  future  English 
philosophers  may  feel  thereat  a  curious 
fatalistic  satisfaction. 

EDWARD  GARNETT. 
October  1899. 

xiii 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER, I 

A   STRANGE  STORY,        . 4O 

PUNIN   AND   BABURIN, 77 

OLD    PORTRAITS, I72 

THE   BRIGADIER, 2IO 

PYETUSHKOV, 248 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 


.  .  .  We  were  a  party  of  eight  in  the  room, 
and  we  were  talking  of  contemporary  affairs 
and  men. 

'  I  don't  understand  these  men  ! '  observed  A.: 
*  they 're  such  desperate  fellows.  .  .  .  Really 
desperate.  .  .  .  There  has  never  been  anything 
like  it  before.' 

*  Yes,  there  has,'  put  in  P.,  a  man  getting  on 
in  years,  with  grey  hair,  born  some  time  in  the 
twenties  of  this  century  :  *  there  were  desperate 
characters  in  former  days  too,  only  they  were 
not  like  the  desperate  fellows  of  to-day.  Of 
the  poet  Yazikov  some  one  has  said  that  he 
had  enthusiasm,  but  not  applied  to  anything — 
an  enthusiasm  without  an  object.  So  it  was 
with  those  people — their  desperateness  was 
without  an  object.  But  there,  if  you  '11  allow 
me,  I  '11  tell  you  the  story  of  my  nephew,  or 
rather  cousin,  Misha  Poltyev.  It  may  serve  as 
an  example  of  the  desperate  characters  of  those 
days. 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

He  came  into  God's  world,  I  remember,  in 
1828,  at  his  father's  native  place  and  property, 
in  one  of  the  sleepiest  corners  of  a  sleepy  pro- 
vince of  the  steppes.  Misha's  father,  Andrei 
Nikolaevitch  Poltyev,  I  remember  well  to  this 
day.  He  was  a  genuine  old-world  landowner, 
a  God-fearing,  sedate  man,  fairly — for  those 
days — well  educated,  just  a  little  cracked,  to 
tell  the  truth — and,  moreover,  he  suffered  from 
epilepsy.  .  .  .  That  too  is  an  old-world,  gentle- 
manly complaint.  .  .  .  Andrei  Nikolaevitch's 
fits  were,  however,  slight,  and  generally  ended 
in  sleep  and  depression.  He  was  good-hearted, 
and  of  an  affable  demeanour,  not  without  a 
certain  stateliness  :  I  always  pictured  to  myself 
the  tsar  Mihail  Fedorovitch  as  like  him.  The 
whole  life  of  Andrei  Nikolaevitch  was  passed 
in  the  punctual  fulfilment  of  every  observance 
established  from  old  days,  in  strict  conformity 
with  all  the  usages  of  the  old  orthodox  holy 
Russian  mode  of  life.  He  got  up  and  went  to 
bed,  ate  his  meals,  and  went  to  his  bath,  rejoiced 
or  was  wroth  (both  very  rarely,  it  is  true),  even 
smoked  his  pipe  and  played  cards  (two  great 
innovations !),  not  after  his  own  fancy,  not 
in  a  way  of  his  own,  but  according  to  the 
custom  and  ordinance  of  his  fathers — with  due 
decorum  and  formality.  He  was  tall,  well  built, 
and  stout ;  his  voice  was  soft  and  rather  husky, 
as  is  so  often  the  case  with  virtuous  people  in 
Russia ;  he  was  scrupulously  neat  in  his  dress 
2 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

and  linen,  and  wore  white  cravats  and  full- 
skirted  snuff-coloured  coats,  but  his  noble 
blood  was  nevertheless  evident ;  no  one  could 
have  taken  him  for  a  priest's  son  or  a  merchant ! 
At  all  times,  on  all  possible  occasions,  and 
in  all  possible  contingencies,  Andrei  Nikolae- 
vitch  knew  without  fail  what  ought  to  be  done, 
what  was  to  be  said,  and  precisely  what  expres- 
sions were  to  be  used  ;  he  knew  when  he  ought 
to  take  medicine,  and  just  what  he  ought  to 
take ;  what  omens  were  to  be  believed  and  what 
might  be  disregarded  ...  in  fact,  he  knew 
everything  that  ought  to  be  done.  .  .  .  For  as 
everything  had  been  provided  for  and  laid  down 
by  one's  elders,  one  had  only  to  be  sure  not  to 
imagine  anything  of  one's  self.  .  .  .  And  above 
all,  without  God's  blessing  not  a  step  to  be 
taken ! — It  must  be  confessed  that  a  deadly 
dulness  reigned  supreme  in  his  house,  in  those 
low-pitched,  warm,  dark  rooms,  that  so  often 
resounded  with  the  singing  of  liturgies  and 
all-night  services,  and  had  the  smell  of  incense 
and  Lenten  dishes  almost  always  hanging 
about  them ! 

Andrei  Nikolaevitch — no  longer  in  his  first 
youth — married  a  young  lady  of  a  neighbour- 
ing family,  without  fortune,  a  very  nervous 
and  sickly  person,  who  had  had  a  boarding- 
school  education.  She  played  the  piano  fairly, 
spoke  boarding-school  French,  was  easily  moved 
to  enthusiasm,  and  still  more  easily  to  melan 
3 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

choly  and  even  tears. .  .  .  She  was  of  unbalanced 
character,  in  fact.  She  regarded  her  life  as 
wasted,  could  not  care  for  her  husband,  who, 
*  of  course,'  did  not  understand  her ;  but  she 
respected  him,  .  .  .  she  put  up  with  him ;  and 
being  perfectly  honest  and  perfectly  cold, 
she  never  even  dreamed  of  another  '  affection/ 
Besides,  she  was  always  completely  engrossed 
in  the  care,  first,  of  her  own  really  delicate 
health,  secondly,  of  the  health  of  her  husband, 
whose  fits  always  inspired  in  her  something 
like  superstitious  horror,  and  lastly,  of  her  only 
son,  Misha,  whom  she  brought  up  herself  with 
great  zeal.  Andrei  Nikolaevitch  did  not 
oppose  his  wife's  looking  after  Misha,  on  the 
one  condition  of  his  education  never  over- 
stepping the  lines  laid  down,  once  and  for  all, 
within  which  everything  must  move  in  his 
house !  Thus,  for  instance,  at  Christmas-time, 
and  at  New  Year,  and  St.  Vassily's  eve,  it  was 
permissible  for  Misha  to  dress  up  and  mas- 
querade with  the  servant  boys — and  not  only 
permissible,  but  even  a  binding  duty.  .  .  .  But, 
at  any  other  time,  God  forbid  !  and  so  on,  and 
so  on. 


II 


I  REMEMBER  Misha  at   thirteen.      He  was  a 

very  pretty  boy,  with  rosy  little  cheeks  and 

4 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTEH 

soft  lips  (indeed  he  was  soft  and  plump-looking 
all  over),  with  prominent  liquid  eyes,  carefully 
brushed  and  combed,  caressing  and  modest — 
a  regular  little  girl !  There  was  only  one  thing 
about  him  I  did  not  like :  he  rarely  laughed ; 
but  when  he  did  laugh,  his  teeth — large  white 
teeth,  pointed  like  an  animal's — showed  dis- 
agreeably, and  the  laugh  itself  had  an  abrupt, 
even  savage,  almost  animal  sound,  and  there 
were  unpleasant  gleams  in  his  eyes.  His 
mother  was  always  praising  him  for  being  so 
obedient  and  well  behaved,  and  not  caring 
to  make  friends  with  rude  boys,  but  always 
preferring  feminine  society.  '  A  mother's  dar- 
ling, a  milksop,'  his  father,  Andrei  Nikolaevitch, 
would  call  him  ;  '  but  he 's  always  ready  to  go 
into  the  house  of  God.  .  .  .  And  that  I  am 
glad  to  see.'  Only  one  old  neighbour,  who 
had  been  a  police  captain,  once  said  before  me, 
speaking  of  Misha,  '  Mark  my  words,  he  '11  be 
a  rebel.'  And  this  saying,  I  remember,  sur- 
prised me  very  much  at  the  time.  The  old 
police  captain,  it  is  true,  used  to  see  rebels  on 
all  sides. 

Just  such  an  exemplary  youth  Misha  con- 
tinued to  be  till  the  eighteenth  year  of  his  age, 
up  to  the  death  of  his  parents,  both  of  whom  he 
lost  almost  on  the  same  day.  As  I  was  all  the 
while  living  constantly  at  Moscow,  I  heard 
nothing  of  my  young  kinsman.  An  acquaint- 
ance coming  from  his  province  did,  it  is  true, 
5 


A   DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

inform  me  that  Misha  had  sold  the  paternal 
estate  for  a  trifling  sum  ;  but  this  piece  of  news 
struck  me  as  too  wildly  improbable!  And  be- 
hold, all  of  a  sudden,  one  autumn  morning  there 
flew  into  the  courtyard  of  my  house  a  carriage, 
with  a  pair  of  splendid  trotting  horses,  and  a 
coachman  of  monstrous  size  on  the  box  ;  and  in 
the  carnage,  wrapped  in  a  cloak  of  military  cut, 
with  a  beaver  collar  two  yards  deep,  and  with 
a  foraging  cap  cocked  on  one  side,  d  la  diable 
niemporte,  sat  .  .  .  Misha !  On  catching  sight 
of  me  (I  was  standing  at  the  drawing-room 
window,  gazing  in  astonishment  at  the  flying 
equipage),  he  laughed  his  abrupt  laugh,  and 
jauntily  flinging  back  his  cloak,  he  jumped 
out  of  the  carriage  and  ran  into  the  house. 

*  Misha !  Mihail  Andreevitch  ! '  I  was  be- 
ginning, .  .  .  '  Is  it  you?' 

'  Call  me  Misha,' — he  interrupted  me.  *  Yes, 
it's  I,  .  .  .  I,  in  my  own  person.  ...  I  have 
come  to  Moscow  ...  to  see  the  world  .  .  . 
and  show  myself.  And  here  I  am,  come  to  see 
you.  What  do  you  say  to  my  horses?  .  .  . 
Eh?'  he  laughed  again. 

Though  it  was  seven  years  since  I  had  seen 
Misha  last,  I  recognised  him  at  once.  His  face 
had  remained  just  as  youthful  and  as  pretty  as 
ever — there  was  no  moustache  even  visible; 
only  his  cheeks  looked  a  little  swollen  under  his 
eyes,  and  a  smell  of  spirits  came  from  his  lips. 

*  Have  you  been  long  in  Moscow  ? '  I  inquired, 

6 


A   DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

'  I  supposed  you  were  at  home  in  the  country, 
looking  after  the  place.'  .  .  . 

*  Eh  !  The  country  I  threw  up  at  once  !  As 
soon  as  my  parents  died — may  their  souls  rest 
in  peace — (Misha  crossed  himself  scrupulously 
without  a  shade  of  mockery)  at  once,  without  a 
moment's  delay,  .  .  .  ein,  zweiy  dreil  ha,  ha! 
I  let  it  go  cheap,  damn  it !  A  rascally  fellow 
turned  up.  But  it 's  no  matter !  Anyway,  I 
am  living  as  I  fancy,  and  amusing  other  people. 
But  why  are  you  staring  at  me  like  that?  Was 
I,  really,  to  go  dragging  on  in  the  same  old 
round,  do  you  suppose?  .  .  .  My  dear  fellow, 
couldn't  I  have  a  glass  of  something  ? ' 

Misha  spoke  fearfully  quick  and  hurriedly, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  as  though  he  were  only 
just  waked  up  from  sleep. 

*  Misha,  upon  my  word  ! '  I  wailed  ;  *  have  you 
no  fear  of  God?  What  do  you  look  like? 
What  an  attire!  And  you  ask  for  a  glass 
too!  And  to  sell  such  a  fine  estate  for  next 
to  nothing.  .  .  / 

*  God  I  fear  always,  and  do  not  forget,'  he 
broke  in.  ...  '  But  He  is  good,  you  know — 
God  is.  .  .  .  He  will  forgive !  And  I  am  good 
too.  ...  I  have  never  yet  hurt  any  one  in  my 
life.  And  drink  is  good  too ;  and  as  for  hurt- 
ing, ...  it  never  hurt  any  one  either.  And  my 
get-up  is  quite  the  most  correct  thing.  .  .  . 
Uncle,  would  you  like  me  to  show  you  I  can 
walk  straight  ?     Or  to  do  a  little  dance  ? ' 

7 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

*  Oh,  spare  me,  please !  A  dance,  indeed ! 
You  'd  better  sit  down.' 

*  As  to  that,  I  '11  sit  down  with  pleasure.  .  .  . 
But  why  do  you  say  nothing  of  my  greys ' 
Just  look  at  them,  they're  perfect  lions  !  I  've 
got  them  on  hire  for  the  time,  but  I  shall  buy 
them  for  certain,  .  .  .  and  the  coachman  too. 
.  .  .  It's  ever  so  much  cheaper  to  have  one's 
own  horses.  And  I  had  the  money,  but  I  lost 
it  yesterday  at  faro.  It 's  no  matter,  I  '11  make 
it  up  to-morrow.  Uncle,  .  .  .  how  about  that 
little  glass  ? ' 

I  was  still  unable  to  get  over  my  amazement. 
'  Really,  Misha,  how  old  are  you  ?  You  ought 
not  to  be  thinking  about  horses  or  cards,  .  .  , 
but  going  into  the  university  or  the  service.' 

Misha  first  laughed  again,  then  gave  vent  to 
a  prolonged  whistle. 

*  Well,  uncle,  I  see  you  're  in  a  melancholy 
humour  to-day.  I  '11  come  back  another  time. 
But  I  tell  you  what :  you  come  in  the  even- 
ing to  Sokolniki.  I  've  a  tent  pitched  there. 
The  gypsies  sing,  .  .  .  such  goings-on.  .  .  . 
And  there  's  a  streamer  on  the  tent,  and  on 
the  streamer,  written  in  large  letters :  "  The 
Troupe  of  Poltyev's  Gypsies."  The  streamer 
coils  like  a  snake,  the  letters  are  of  gold, 
attractive  for  every  one  to  read.  A  free 
entertainment — whoever  likes  to  come!  ,  .  . 
No  refusal !  I  'm  making  the  dust  fly  in 
Moscow  ...  to  my  glory !  .  .  .     Eh  ?  will  you 

8 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

come?  Ah,  I  've  one  girl  there  ...  a  serpent! 
Black  as  your  boot,  spiteful  as  a  dog,  and  eyes 
.  .  .  like  living  coals !  One  can  never  tell 
v^hat  she 's  going  to  do — kiss  or  bite !  .  .  .  Will 
you  come,  uncle  ?  .  .  .  Well,  good-bye,  till  we 
meet!' 

And  with  a  sudden  embrace,  and  a  smacking 
kiss  on  my  shoulder,  Misha  darted  away  into 
the  courtyard,  and  into  the  carriage,  waved  his 
cap  over  his  head,  hallooed, — the  monstrous 
coachman  leered  at  him  over  his  beard,  the 
greys  dashed  ofif,  and  all  vanished ! 

The  next  day  I — like  a  sinner — set  off  to 
Sokolniki,  and  did  actually  see  the  tent  with  the 
streamer  and  the  inscription.  The  drapery  of 
the  tent  was  raised  ;  from  it  came  clamour, 
creaking,  and  shouting.  Crowds  of  people 
were  thronging  round  it.  On  a  carpet  spread 
on  the  ground  sat  gypsies,  men  and  women, 
singing  and  beating  drums,  and  in  the  midst  of 
them,  in  a  red  silk  shirt  and  velvet  breeches, 
was  Misha,  holding  a   guitar,  dancing   a  jig. 

*  Gentlemen!  honoured  friends !  walk  in,  please! 
the  performance  is  just  beginning!  Free  to 
all ! '  he  was  shouting  in  a  high,  cracked  voice. 

*  Hey  !  champagne  !  pop  !  a  pop  on  the  head  ! 
pop  up  to  the  ceiling  !  Ha  !  you  rogue  there, 
Paul  de  Kock  ! ' 

Luckily  he  did  not  see  me,  and  I  hastily 
made  off. 

I  won't  enlarge  on  my  astonishment  at  the 
9 


A   DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

Spectacle  of  this  transformation.  But,  how  was 
it  actually  possible  for  that  quiet  and  modest 
boy  to  change  all  at  once  into  a  drunken 
buffoon  ?  Could  it  all  have  been  latent  in  him 
from  childhood,  and  have  come  to  the  surface 
directly  the  yoke  of  his  parents'  control  was 
removed  ?  But  that  he  had  made  the  dust  fly 
in  Moscow,  as  he  expressed  it — of  that,  cer- 
tainly, there  could  be  no  doubt.  I  have  seen 
something  of  riotous  living  in  my  day ;  but  in 
this  there  was  a  sort  of  violence,  a  sort  of 
frenzy  of  self-destruction,  a  sort  of  desperation ! 


Ill 


For  two  months  these  diversions  continued. 
.  .  .  And  once  more  I  was  standing  at  my 
drawing-room  window,  looking  into  the  court- 
yard. .  .  .  All  of  a  sudden  —  what  could  it 
mean?  .  .  .  therecameslowly  stepping  in  at  the 
gate  a  pilgrim  ...  a  squash  hat  pulled  down 
on  his  forehead,  his  hair  combed  out  straight 
to  right  and  left  below  it,  a  long  gown,  a  leather 
belt.  .  .  Could  it  be  Misha  ?     He  it  was  ! 

I  went  to  meet  him  on  the  steps.  .  .  •  'What's 
this  masquerade  for  ? '  I  demanded. 

*It*s  not  a  masquerade,  uncle,'  Misha 
answered  with  a  deep  sigh :  since  all  I  had 
I've  squandered  to  the  last  farthing— and  a 
great  repentance  too  has  come  upon  me — so  I 

10 


A   DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

have  resolved  to  go  to  the  Sergiev  monastery 
of  the  Holy  Trinity  to  expiate  my  sins  in 
prayer.  For  what  refuge  was  left  me  ?  .  .  . 
And  so  I  have  come  to  you  to  say  good-bye, 
uncle,  like  a  prodigal  son.' 

I  looked  intently  at  Misha.  His  face,  was 
just  the  same,  rosy  and  fresh  (indeed  it  remained 
almost  unchanged  to  the  end),  and  the  eyes, 
liquid,  affectionate,  and  languishing — and  the 
hands,  as  small  and  white.  .  .  .  But  he  smelt 
of  spirits. 

'Well,'  I  pronounced  at  last,  'it's  a  good 
thing  to  do — since  there  's  nothing  else  to  be 
done.     But  why  is  it  you  smell  of  spirits  ? ' 

*  A  relic  of  the  past/  answered  Misha,  and 
he  suddenly  laughed,  but  immediately  pulled 
himself  up,  and,  making  a  straight,  low  bow — a 
monk's  bow — he  added  :  '  Won't  you  help  me 
on  my  way  ?  I  'm  going,  see,  on  foot  to  the 
monastery.  .  .  .* 

'When?' 

*  To-day  ...  at  once.' 

*  Why  be  in  such  a  hurry  ? ' 

'  Uncle,  my  motto  always  was,  "  Make  haste, 
make  haste!"' 

'  But  what  is  your  motto  now  ? ' 

'It's  the  same  now.  .  .  .  Only,  make  haste 
towards  good ! ' 

And  so  Misha  went  off,  leaving  me  to  ponder 
on  the  vicissitudes  of  human  destiny. 

But  he  soon  reminded  me  of  his  existence. 
II 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

Two  months  after  his  visit,  I  got  a  letter  from 
him,  the  first  of  those  letters,  of  which  later  on 
he  furnished  me  with  so  abundant  a  supply. 
And  note  a  peculiar  fact:  I  have  seldom  seen 
a  neater,  more  legible  handwriting  than  that 
unbalanced  fellow's.  And  the  wording  of  his 
letters  was  exceedingly  correct,  just  a  little 
flowery.  Invariable  entreaties  for  assistance, 
always  attended  with  resolutions  to  reform, 
vows,  and  promises  on  his  honour.  .  .  .  All 
of  it  seemed  —  and  perhaps  was  —  sincere. 
Misha's  signature  to  his  letters  was  always 
accompanied  by  peculiar  strokes,  flourishes, 
and  stops,  and  he  made  great  use  of  marks  of 
exclamation.  In  this  first  letter  Misha  informed 
me  of  a  new  *  turn  in  his  fortune.'  (Later  on 
he  used  to  refer  to  these  turns  as  plunges,  .  .  . 
and  frequent  were  the  plunges  he  took.)  He 
was  starting  for  the  Caucasus  on  active  service 
for  his  tsar  and  his  country  in  the  capacity  of 
a  cadet!  And,  though  a  certain  benevolent 
aunt  had  entered  into  his  impecunious  position, 
and  had  sent  him  an  inconsiderable  sum,  still 
he  begged  me  to  assist  him  in  getting  his 
equipment.  I  did  what  he  asked,  and  for  two 
years  I  heard  nothing  more  of  him. 

I  must  own  I  had  the  gravest  doubts  as  to 
his  having  gone  to  the  Caucasus.  But  it 
turned  out  that  he  really  had  gone  there,  had, 

by  favour,  got  into  the  T regiment  as  a 

cadet,  and  had  been  serving  in  it  for  those  two 

12 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

years.  A  perfect  series  of  legends  had  sprung 
up  there  about  him.  An  officer  of  his  regiment 
related  them  to  me. 


IV 

I  LEARNED  a  great  deal  which  I  should  never 
have  expected  of  him. — I  was,  of  course,  hardly 
surprised  that  as  a  military  man,  as  an  officer, 
he  was  not  a  success,  that  he  was  in  fact  worse 
than  useless;  but  what  I  had  not  anticipated 
was  that  he  was  by  no  means  conspicuous  for 
much  bravery ;  that  in  battle  he  had  a  down- 
cast, woebegone  air,  seemed  half-depressed, 
half-bewildered.  Discipline  of  every  sort 
worried  him,  and  made  him  miserable ;  he  was 
daring  to  the  point  of  insanity  when  only  his 
own  personal  safety  was  in  question ;  no  bet 
was  too  mad  for  him  to  accept ;  but  do  harm 
to  others,  kill,  fight,  he  could  not,  possibly 
because  his  heart  was  too  good — or  possibly 
because  his  *  cottonwool '  education  (so  he  ex- 
pressed it),  had  made  him  too  soft.  Himself  he 
was  quite  ready  to  murder  in  any  way  at  any 
moment.  .  .  .  But  others — no.  '  There  's  no 
making  him  out,'  his  comrades  said  of  him ; 
*  he 's  a  flabby  creature,  a  poor  stick — and  yet 
such  a  desperate  fellow — a  perfect  madman  ! ' 
I  chanced  in  later  days  to  ask  Misha  what  evil 
spirit  drove  him,  forced  him,  to  drink  to  excess, 
13 


A  DESPERATE  CIIA.RACTER 

risk  his  life,  and  so  on.     He  always  had  one 
answer — *  wretchedness.' 

'  But  why  are  you  wretched  ? ' 

*  Why !  how  can  you  ask  ?  If  one  comes,  any- 
way, to  one's  self,  begins  to  feel,  to  think  of  the 
poverty,  of  the  injustice,  of  Russia.  .  .  .  Well, 
it's  all  over  with  me!  .  .  .  one's  so  wretched 
at  once — one  wants  to  put  a  bullet  through 
one's  head  !      One 's  forced  to  start  drinking.' 

'  Why  ever  do  you  drag  Russia  in  ? ' 
'  How   can  I    help   it  ?      Can't   be    helped  I 
That 's  why  I  'm  afraid  to  think.* 

*  It  all  comes,  and  your  wretchedness  too, 
from  having  nothing  to  do.' 

'But  I  don't  know  how  to  do  anything, 
uncle  !  dear  fellow !  Take  one's  life,  and  stake 
it  on  a  card — that  I  can  do !  Come,  you  tell  me 
what  I  ought  to  do,  what  to  risk  my  life  for? 
This  instant  ...  I'll  ..  .' 

*But  you  must  simply  live.  .  ,  .  Why  risk 
your  life  ? ' 

*  I  can't !  You  say  I  act  thoughtlessly.  .  .  , 
But  what  else  can  I  do?  .  .  .  If  one  starts 
thinking — good  God,  all  that  comes  into  one's 
head  !    It 's  only  Germans  who  can  think !  .  .  .' 

What  use  was  it  talking  to  him  ?  He  was  a 
desperate  man,  and  that's  all  one  can  say. 

Of  the  Caucasus  legends  I  have  spoken  about, 

I  will  tell  you  two  or   three.     One  day,  in  a 

party  of  officers,  Misha  began  boasting  of  a  sabre 

he  had  got  by  exchange — *  a  genuine  Persian 

14 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

blade ! '  The  officers  expressed  doubts  as  to 
its  genuineness.  Misha  began  disputing.  *  Here 
then/  he  cried  at  last ;  *  they  say  the  man  that 
knows  most  about  sabres  is  Abdulka  the  one- 
eyed.  I'll  go  to  him,  and  ask.'  The  officers 
wondered.  'What  Abdulka?  Do  you  mean 
that  lives  in  the  mountains  ?  The  rebel  never 
subdued?  Abdul-khan?'  *Yes,  that's  him.' 
*Why,  but  he'll  take  you  for  a  spy,  will  put 
you  in  a  hole  full  of  bugs,  or  else  cut  your  head 
off  with  your  own  sabre.  And,  besides,  how 
are  you  going  to  get  to  him  ?  They  '11  catch 
you  directly.'  '  I  '11  go  to  him,  though,  all  the 
same.'  '  Bet  you  won't  I '  *  Taken  ! '  And 
Misha  promptly  saddled  his  horse  and  rode  off 
to  Abdulka.  He  disappeared  for  three  days. 
All  felt  certain  that  the  crazy  fellow  had  come 
by  his  end.  But,  behold  !  he  came  back — 
drunk,  and  with  a  sabre,  not  the  one  he  had 
taken,  but  another.  They  began  questioning 
him.  'It  was  all  right,'  said  he;  ' Abdulka 's 
a  nice  fellow.  At  first,  it's  true,  he  ordered 
them  to  put  irons  on  my  legs,  and  was  even  on 
the  point  of  having  me  impaled.  Only,  I  ex- 
plained why  I  had  come,  and  showed  him  the 
sabre.  "  And  you  *d  better  not  keep  me,"  said 
I  ;  "  don't  expect  a  ransom  for  me ;  I  've  not 
a  farthing  to  bless  myself  with — and  I  've  no 
relations."  Abdulka  was  surprised  ;  he  looked 
at  me  with  his  solitary  eye.  "  Well,"  said  he, 
"  you  are  a  bold  one,  you  Russian ;  am  I   to 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

believe  you  ?  "  **  You  may  believe  me,"  said  I ; 
"  I  never  tell  a  lie."  (And  this  was  true ;  Misha 
never  lied.)  Abdulka  looked  at  me  again. 
"And  do  you  know  how  to  drink  wine?"  "  I 
do,"  said  I ;  "give  me  as  much  as  you  will,  I  '11 
drink  it."  Abdulka  was  surprised  again ;  he 
called  on  Allah.  And  he  told  his — daughter,  I 
suppose — such  a  pretty  creature,  only  with  an 
eye  like  a  jackal's — to  bring  a  wine-skin.  And 
I  began  to  get  to  work  on  it.  "But  your 
sabre,"  said  he,  "  isn't  genuine ;  here,  take  the 
real  thing.  And  now  we  are  pledged  friends." 
But  you  've  lost  your  bet,  gentlemen  ;  pay  up.' 
The  second  legend  of  Misha  is  of  this  nature. 
He  was  passionately  fond  of  cards ;  but  as  he 
had  no  money,  and  could  never  pay  his  debts 
at  cards  (though  he  was  never  a  card -sharper), 
no  one  at  last  would  sit  down  to  a  game  with 
him.  So  one  day  he  began  urgently  begging 
one  of  his  comrades  among  the  officers  to  play 
with  him  1  *  But  if  you  lose,  you  don't  pay.' 
*  The  money  certainly  I  can't  pay,  but  I  '11  put 
a  shot  through  my  left  hand,  see,  with  this 
pistol  here !  *  *  But  whatever  use  will  that  be 
to  me  ?  *  *  No  use,  but  still  it  will  be  curious.' 
This  conversation  took  place  after  a  drinking 
bout  in  the  presence  of  witnesses.  Whether 
it  was  that  Misha's  proposition  struck  the 
officer  as  really  curious — anyway  he  agreed. 
Cards  were  brought,  the  game  began.  Misha 
was  in  luck  ;  he  won  a  hundred  roubles.  And 
i6 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

thereupon  his  opponent  struck  his  forehead 
with  vexation.  *  What  an  ass  I  am  ! '  he  cried, 
*to  be  taken  in  like  this!  As  if  you'd  have 
shot  your  hand  if  you  had  lost ! — a  likely 
story  !  hold  out  your  purse  ! '  *  That 's  a  lie/ 
retorted  Misha  :  '  I  Ve  won — but  I  '11  shoot  my 
hand.'  He  snatched  up  his  pistol — and  bang, 
fired  at  his  own  hand.  The  bullet  passed  right 
through  it  .  .  .  and  in  a  week  the  wound  had 
completely  healed. 

Another  time,  Misha  was  riding  with  his 
comrades  along  a  road  at  night  .  .  .  and  they 
saw  close  to  the  roadside  a  narrow  ravine  like 
a  deep  cleft,  dark — so  dark  you  couldn't  see 
the  bottom.  *  Look,'  said  one  of  the  officers, 
*  Misha  may  be  a  desperate  fellow,  but  he 
wouldn't  leap  into  that  ravine.'  *  Yes,  I  'd 
leap  in ! '  *  No,  you  wouldn't,  for  I  dare  say 
it's  seventy  feet  deep,  and  you  might  break 
your  neck.'  His  friend  knew  his  weak  point — 
vanity.  .  .  .  There  was  a  great  deal  of  it  in 
Misha.  'But  I'll  leap  in  anyway!  Would 
you  like  to  bet  on  it  ?  Ten  roubles.'  '  Good  ! ' 
And  the  officer  had  hardly  uttered  the  word, 
when  Misha  and  his  horse  were  off— into  the 
ravine — and  crashing  down  over  the  stones. 
All  were  simply  petrified.  ...  A  full  minute 
passed,  and  they  heard  Misha's  voice,  dimly, 
as  it  were  rising  up  out  of  the  bowels  of  the 
earth :  '  All  right !  fell  on  the  sand  .  .  .  but  it 
was  a  long  flight !  Ten  roubles  you  've  lost  I ' 
B  17 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

*  Climb  out!'  shouted  his  comrades.  'Climb 
out,  I  dare  say!'  echoed  Misha.  *A  likely 
story!  I  should  like  to  see  you  climb  out. 
You'll  have  to  go  for  torches  and  ropes  now. 
And,  meanwhile,  to  keep  up  my  spirits  while 
I  wait,  fling  down  a  flask.  .  .  .' 

And  so  Misha  had  to  stay  five  hours  at  the 
bottom  of  the  ravine  ;  and  when  they  dragged 
him  out,  it  turned  out  that  his  shoulder  was 
dislocated.  But  that  in  no  way  troubled  him. 
The  next  day  a  bone-setter,  one  of  the  black- 
smiths, set  his  shoulder,  and  he  used  it  as 
though  nothing  had  been  the  matter. 

His  health  in  general  was  marvellous,  in- 
credible. I  have  already  mentioned  that  up 
to  the  time  of  his  death  he  kept  his  almost 
childishly  fresh  complexion.  Illness  was  a 
thing  unknown  to  him,  in  spite  of  his  excesses  ; 
the  strength  of  his  constitution  never  once 
showed  signs  of  giving  way.  When  any  other 
man  would  infallibly  have  been  seriously  ill, 
or  even  have  died,  he  merely  shook  himself, 
like  a  duck  in  the  water,  and  was  more  bloom- 
ing than  ever.  Once,  also  in  the  Caucasus  .  .  . 
this  legend  is  really  incredible,  but  one  may 
judge  from  it  what  Misha  was  thought  to  be 
capable  of.  .  .  .  Well,  once,  in  the  Caucasus, 
in  a  state  of  drunkenness,  he  fell  down  with 
the  lower  half  of  his  body  in  a  stream  of 
water ;  his  head  and  arms  were  on  the  bank, 
out  of  water.  It  was  winter-time,  there  was  a 
i8 


A  DESPERATE   CHARACTER 

hard  frost,  and  when  he  was  found  next  morn- 
ing, his  legs  and  body  were  pulled  out  from 
under  a  thick  layer  of  ice,  which  had  formed 
over  them  in  the  night — and  he  didn't  even 
catch  cold  !  Another  time — this  was  in  Russia 
(near  Orel,  and  also  in  a  time  of  severe  frost) 
— he  was  in  a  tavern  outside  the  town  in 
company  with  seven  young  seminarists  (or 
theological  students),  and  these  seminarists 
were  celebrating  their  final  examination,  but 
had  invited  Misha,  as  a  delightful  person,  a 
man  of  *  inspiration,'  as  the  phrase  was  then. 
A  very  great  deal  was  drunk,  and  when  at  last 
the  festive  party  got  ready  to  depart,  Misha, 
dead  drunk,  was  in  an  unconscious  condition. 
All  the  seven  seminarists  together  had  but  one 
three-horse  sledge  with  a  high  back;  where 
were  they  to  stow  the  unresisting  body  ?  Then 
one  of  the  young  men,  inspired  by  classical 
reminiscences,  proposed  tying  Misha  by  his 
feet  to  the  back  of  the  sledge,  as  Hector  was 
tied  to  the  chariot  of  Achilles  !  The  proposal 
met  with  approval  .  .  .  and  jolting  up  and 
down  over  the  holes,  sliding  sideways  down 
the  slopes,  with  his  legs  torn  and  flayed,  and 
his  head  rolling  in  the  snow,  poor  Misha 
travelled  on  his  back  for  the  mile  and  a  half 
from  the  tavern  to  the  town,  and  hadn't  as 
much  as  a  cough  afterwards,  hadn't  turned  a 
hair !  Such  heroic  health  had  nature  bestowed 
upon  him ! 

19 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 


From  the  Caucasus  he  came  again  to  Moscow, 
in  a  Circassian  dress,  a  dagger  in  his  sash,  a 
high-peaked  cap  on  his  head.  This  costume 
he  retained  to  the  end,  though  he  was  no 
longer  in  the  army,  from  which  he  had  been 
discharged  for  outstaying  his  leave.  He  stayed 
with  me,  borrowed  a  little  money  .  .  .  and 
forthwith  began  his  *  plunges,'  his  wanderings, 
or,  as  he  expressed  it,  'his  peregrinations 
from  pillar  to  post,'  then  came  the  sudden 
disappearances  and  returns,  and  the  showers 
of  beautifully  written  letters  addressed  to 
people  of  every  possible  description,  from  an 
archbishop  down  to  stable-boys  and  mid- 
wives  !  Then  came  calls  upon  persons  known 
and  unknown !  And  this  is  worth  noticing : 
when  he  made  these  calls,  he  was  never 
abject  and  cringing,  he  never  worried  people 
by  begging,  but  on  the  contrary  behaved  with 
propriety,  and  had  positively  a  cheerful  and 
pleasant  air,  though  the  inveterate  smell  of 
spirits  accompanied  him  everywhere,  and  his 
Oriental  costume  gradually  changed  into 
rags.  '  Give,  and  God  will  reward  you, 
though  I  don't  deserve  it,'  he  would  say,  with 
a  bright  smile  and  a  candid  blush ;  *  if  you 
don't  give,  you'll  be  perfectly  right,  and  I 
shan't  blame  you  for  it.  I  shall  find  food  to 
20 


A   DESPERATE   CHARACTER 

eat,  God  will  provide !  And  there  are  people 
poorer  than  I,  and  much  more  deserving  of 
help — plenty,  plenty  ! '  Misha  was  particularly 
successful  with  women :  he  knew  how  to 
appeal  to  their  sympathy.  But  don't  suppose 
that  he  was  or  fancied  himself  a  Lovelace.  .  .  . 
Oh,  no!  in  that  way  he  was  very  modest. 
Whether  it  was  that  he  had  inherited  a  cool 
temperament  from  his  parents,  or  whether 
indeed  this  too  is  to  be  set  down  to  his  dis- 
like for  doing  any  one  harm — as,  according  to 
his  notions,  relations  with  a  woman  meant 
inevitably  doing  a  woman  harm  —  I  won't 
undertake  to  decide ;  only  in  all  his  behaviour 
with  the  fair  sex  he  was  extremely  delicate. 
Women  felt  this,  and  were  the  more  ready  to 
sympathise  with  him  and  help  him,  until  at 
last  he  revolted  them  by  his  drunkenness  and 
debauchery,  by  the  desperateness  of  which  I 
have  spoken  already.  .  .  •  I  can  think  of  no 
other  word  for  it. 

But  in  other  relations  he  had  by  that  time 
lost  every  sort  of  delicacy,  and  was  gradually 
sinking  to  the  lowest  depths  of  degradation. 

He  once,  in  the  public  assembly  at  T ,  got 

as  far  as  setting  on  the  table  a  jug  with  a 
notice :  *  Any  one,  to  whom  it  may  seem 
agreeable  to  give  the  high-born  noble- 
man Poltyev  (authentic  documents  in  proof 
of  his  pedigree  are  herewith  exposed)  a  flip 
on  the  nose,  may  satisfy  this  inclination   on 

21 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

putting  a  rouble  into  this  jug.'  And  I  am 
told  there  were  persons  found  willing  to  pay 
for  the  privilege  of  flipping  a  nobleman's  nose ! 
It  is  true  that  one  such  person,  who  put  in 
only  one  rouble  and  gave  him  two  flips,  he 
first  almost  strangled,  and  then  forced  to 
apologise  ;  it  is  true,  too,  that  part  of  the  money 
gained  in  this  fashion  he  promptly  distributed 
among  other  poor  devils  ,  ,  ,  but  still,  think 
what  a  disgrace ! 

In  the  course  of  his  *  peregrinations  from 
pillar  to  post,'  he  made  his  way,  too,  to  his 
ancestral  home,  which  he  had  sold  for  next 
to  nothing  to  a  speculator  and  money-lender 
well  known  in  those  days.  The  money-lender 
was  at  home,  and  hearing  of  the  presence  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  the  former  owner,  now 
reduced  to  vagrancy,  he  gave  orders  not  to 
admit  him  into  the  house,  and  even,  in  case 
of  necessity,  to  drive  him  away.  Misha 
announced  that  he  would  not  for  his  part 
consent  to  enter  the  house,  polluted  by  the 
presence  of  so  repulsive  a  person ;  that  he 
would  permit  no  one  to  drive  him  away,  but 
was  going  to  the  churchyard  to  pay  his 
devotions  at  the  grave  of  his  parents.  So  in 
fact  he  did. 

In  the  churchyard  he  was  joined  by  an  old 
house-serf,  who  had  once  been  his  nurse.  The 
money-lender  had  deprived  this  old  man  of 
his  monthly  allowance,  and  driven  him  off  the 

22 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

estate  ;  since  then  his  refuge  had  been  a  corner 
in  a  peasant's  hut.  Misha  had  been  too  short 
a  time  in  possession  of  his  estate  to  have  left 
behind  him  a  particularly  favourable  memory ; 
still  the  old  servant  could  not  resist  running 
to  the  churchyard  as  soon  as  he  heard  of  his 
young  master's  being  there.  He  found  Misha 
sitting  on  the  ground  between  the  tombstones, 
asked  for  his  hand  to  kiss,  as  in  old  times,  and 
even  shed  tears  on  seeing  the  rags  which  clothed 
the  limbs  of  his  once  pampered  young  charge. 

Misha  gazed  long  and  silently  at  the  old  man. 
*  Timofay  ! '  he  said  at  last ;  Timofay  started. 

*What  do  you  desire?' 

*  Have  you  a  spade  ?  * 

*  I  can  get  one.  .  .  .  But  what  do  you  want 
with  a  spade,  Mihailo  Andreitch,  sir?' 

*  I  want  to  dig  myself  a  grave,  Timofay,  and 
to  lie  here  for  time  everlasting  between  my 
father  and  mother.  There's  only  this  spot 
left  me  in  the  world.     Get  a  spade !  * 

*  Yes,  sir,'  said  Timofay ;  he  went  and  got 
it.  And  Misha  began  at  once  digging  in  the 
ground,  while  Timofay  stood  by,  his  chin 
propped  in  his  hand,  repeating :  *  It's  all  that's 
left  for  you  and  me,  master ! ' 

Misha  dug  and  dug,  from  time  to  time 
observing:  'Life's  not  worth  living,  is  it, 
Timofay  ? ' 

*  It's  not  indeed,  master.' 

The  hole  was  already  of  a  good  depth.  People 
23 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

saw  what  Misha  was  about,  and  ran  to  tell  the 
new  owner  about  it.  The  money-lender  was 
at  first  very  angry,  wanted  to  send  for  the 
police :  *  This  is  sacrilege,'  said  he.  But 
afterwards,  probably  reflecting  that  it  was 
inconvenient  anyway  to  have  to  do  with  such  a 
madman,  and  that  it  might  lead  to  a  scandal, — 
he  went  in  his  own  person  to  the  churchyard, 
and  approaching  Misha,  still  toiling,  made  him 
a  polite  bow.  He  went  on  with  his  digging 
as  though  he  had  not  noticed  his  successor. 
'  Mihail  Andreitch,*  began  the  money-lender, 
*  allow  me  to  ask  what  you  are  doing  here?' 

*  You  can  see — I  am  digging  myself  a  grave.' 

*  Why  are  you  doing  so  ? ' 

*  Because  I  don't  want  to  live  any  longer.' 
The  money-lender  fairly  threw  up  his  hands 

in  amazement.     *  You  don't  want  to  live  ? ' 

Misha  glanced  menacingly  at  the  money- 
lender. *  That  surprises  you  ?  Aren't  you  the 
cause  of  it  all?  ,  .  .  You?  .  .  .  You?  .  .  . 
Wasn't  it  you,  Judas,  who  robbed  me,  taking 
advantage  of  my  childishness?  Aren't  you 
flaying  the  peasants'  skins  off  their  backs? 
Haven't  you  taken  from  this  poor  old  man  his 
crust  of  dry  bread?  Wasn't  it  you?  .  .  .  O 
God !  everywhere  nothing  but  injustice,  and 
oppression,  and  evil-doing.  .  .  .  Everything 
must  go  to  ruin  then,  and  me  too !  I  don't  care 
for  life,  I  don't  care  for  life  in  Russia  ! '  And  the 
spade  moved  faster  than  ever  in  Misha's  hands. 

24 


A  DESPERATE   CHARACTER 

*  Here 's  a  devil  of  a  business  ! '  thought  the 
money-lender;  'he's  positively  burying  himself 
alive.'     *  Mihail  Andreevitch,'  he  began  again : 

*  listen.      I  've   been    behaving    badly   to  you, 
indeed  ;  they  told  me  falsely  of  you.' 

Misha  went  on  digging. 

*  But  why  be  desperate  ?  ' 

Misha  still  went  on  digging,  and  kept  throw- 
ing the  earth  at  the  money-lender's  feet,  as 
though  to  say,  '  Here  you  are,  land-grabber.' 

*  Really,  you  're  wrong  in  this.  Won't  you 
be  pleased  to  come  in  to  have  some  lunch, 
and  rest  a  bit?' 

Misha  raised  his  head.  *  So  that 's  it  now ! 
And  anything  to  drink  ?' 

The  money-lender  was  delighted.  *  Why,  of 
course  ...  I  should  think  so.' 

*  You  invite  Timofay  too  ? ' 
'  Well,  .  .  .  yes,  him  too.' 

Misha  pondered.  '  Only,  mind  .  .  .  you  made 
me  a  beggar,  you  know.  .  .  .  Don't  think  you 
can  get  off  with  one  bottle  ! ' 

*  Set  your  mind  at  rest  .  .  .  there  shall  be  all 
you  can  want' 

Misha  got  up  and  flung  down  the  spade.  .  .  . 
*Well,   Timosha,'   said   he    to   his   old  nurse; 

*  let 's   do   honour    to   our    host.    .   .    .   Come 
along.' 

'  Yes,  sir,'  answered  the  old  man. 
And  all  three  started  off  to  the  house  together. 
The  money-lender  knew  the  man  be  had  to 
25 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

deal  with.  At  the  first  start  Misha,  it  is  true, 
exacted  a  promise  from  him  to  *  grant  all  sorts 
of  immunities'  to  the  peasants;  but  an  hour 
later,  this  same  Misha,  together  with  Timofay, 
both  drunk,  were  dancing  a  galop  in  the  big 
apartments,  which  still  seemed  pervaded  by 
the  God-fearing  shade  of  Andrei  Nikolaevitch  ; 
and  an  hour  later  still,  Misha  in  a  dead  sleep 
(he  had  a  very  weak  head  for  spirits),  laid  in  a 
cart  with  his  high  cap  and  dagger,  was  being 
driven  off  to  the  town,  more  than  twenty  miles 
away,  and  there  was  flung  under  a  hedge.  ,  .  . 
As  for  Timofay,  who  could  still  keep  on  his 
legs,  and  only  hiccupped — him,  of  course,  they 
kicked  out  of  the  house;  since  they  couldn't 
get  at  the  master,  they  had  to  be  content  with 
the  old  servant. 


VI 


Some  time  passed  again,  and  I  heard  nothing 
of  Misha.  .  .  .  God  knows  what  he  was  doing. 
But  one  day,  as  I  sat  over  the  samovar  at  a 

posting-station  on  the  T highroad,  waiting 

for  horses,  I  suddenly  heard  under  the  open 
window  of  the  station  room  a  hoarse  voice, 
uttering  in  French  the  words :  *  Monsieur  .  .  , 
monsieur  .  .  .  prenez  piti^  d'un  pauvre  gentil- 
homme  ruin^.'  ...  I  lifted  my  head,  glanced. 
.  .  .  The  mangy-looking  fur  cap,  the  broken 
26 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

ornaments  on  the  ragged  Circassian  dress,  the 
dagger  in  the  cracked  sheath,  the  swollen,  but 
still  rosy  face,  the  dishevelled,  but  still  thick 
crop  of  hair.  .  .  .  Mercy  on  us  I  Misha !  He 
had  come  then  to  begging  alms  on  the  high- 
roads. I  could  not  help  crying  out.  He 
recognised  me,  started,  turned  away,  and  was 
about  to  move  away  from  the  window.  I 
stopped  him  .  .  .  but  what  could  I  say  to  him  ? 
Give  him  a  lecture  ?  ...  In  silence  I  held  out 
a  five-rouble  note ;  he,  also  in  silence,  took  it 
in  his  still  white  and  plump,  though  shaking 
and  dirty  hand,  and  vanished  round  the  corner 
of  the  house. 

It  was  a  good  while  before  they  gave  me 
horses,  and  I  had  time  to  give  myself  up  to 
gloomy  reflections  on  my  unexpected  meeting 
with  Misha ;  I  felt  ashamed  of  having  let  him 
go  so  unsympathetically. 

At  last  I  set  off  on  my  way,  and  half  a  mile 
from  the  station  I  observed  ahead  of  me,  in 
the  road,  a  crowd  of  people  moving  along  with 
a  curious,  as  it  seemed  rhythmic,  step.  I  over- 
took this  crowd — and  what  did  I  see? 

Some  dozen  or  so  beggars,  with  sacks  over 
their  shoulders,  were  walking  two  by  two, 
singing  and  leaping  about,  while  in  front  of 
them  danced  Misha,  stamping  time  with  his 
feet,  and  shouting,  *  Natchiki-tchikaldy,  tchuk, 
tchuk,  tchuk !  .  .  .  Natchiki-tchikaldy,  tchuk, 
tchuk,  tchuk!'     Directly   my  carriage  caught 

37 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

them  up,  and  he  saw  me,  he  began  at  once 
shouting,  'Hurrah!  Stand  in  position!  right 
about  face,  guard  of  the  roadside  ! ' 

The  beggars  took  up  his  shout,  and  halted  ; 
while  he,  with  his  peculiar  laugh,  jumped  on 
to  the  carriage  step,  and  again  yelled:  Hurrah  ! 

*  What's  the  meaning  of  this  ? '  I  asked  with 
involuntary  astonishment. 

'This?  This  is  my  company,  my  army — 
all  beggars,  God's  people,  friends  of  my  heart. 
Every  one  of  them,  thanks  to  you,  has  had  a 
glass;  and  now  we  are  all  rejoicing  and  making 
merry!  .  .  .  Uncle!  Do  you  know  it's  only 
with  beggars,  God's  people,  that  one  can  live 
in  the  world  ...  by  God,  it  is  ! ' 

I  made  him  no  answer  .  .  .  but  at  that 
moment  he  struck  me  as  such  a  kind  good 
creature,  his  face  expressed  such  childlike 
simple-heartedness.  ...  A  light  seemed  sud- 
denly as  it  were  to  dawn  upon  me,  and  I  felt  a 
pang  in  my  heart.  ...  *  Get  into  the  carriage,' 
I  said  to  him.  He  was  taken  aback.  .  .  , 
,  *  What  ?      Into  the  carriage  ? ' 

*  Yes,  get  in,  get  in,'  I  repeated  ;  *  I  want  to 
make  you  a  suggestion.  Sit  down.  .  .  .  Come 
along  with  me.' 

*Well,  as  you  will.'  He  sat  down.  *Well, 
and  you,  my  honoured  friends,  my  dear  com- 
rades,' he  added,  addressing  the  beggars,  'fare- 
well, till  we  meet  again.'  Misha  took  off  his 
high  cap,  and  bowed  low.  The  beggars  all 
28 


A  DESPERATE   CHARACTER 

seemed  overawed.  ...  I  told  the  coachman  to 
whip  up  the  horses,  and  the  carriage  rolled  off. 

The  suggestion  I  wanted  to  make  Mishawas 
this :  the  idea  suddenly  occurred  to  me  to  take 
him  with  me  to  my  home  in  the  country,  about 
five-and-twenty  miles  from  that  station,  to 
rescue  him,  or  at  least  to  make  an  effort  to 
rescue  him.  *  Listen,  Misha,'  I  said  ;  'will  you 
come  along  and  live  with  me?  .  .  .  You  shall 
have  everything  provided  you  ;  you  shall  have 
clothes  and  linen  made  you ;  you  shall  be  pro- 
perly fitted  out,  and  you  shall  have  money  to 
spend  on  tobacco,  and  so  on,  only  on  one 
condition,  that  you  give  up  drink.  .  .  .  Do 
you  agree  ? ' 

Misha  was  positively  aghast  with  delight ; 
he  opened  his  eyes  wide,  flushed  crimson,  and 
suddenly  falling  on  my  shoulder,  began  kissing 
me,  and  repeating  in  a  broken  voice,  *  Uncle 
.  .  .  benefactor  .  .  .  God  reward  you.'  .  .  He 
burst  into  tears  at  last,  and  taking  off  his  cap 
fell  to  wiping  his  eyes,  his  nose,  his  lips  with  it. 

'  Mind,'  I  observed  ;  '  remember  the  condi- 
tion, not  to  touch  strong  drink.' 

*  Damnation  to  it!'  he  cried,  with  a  wave  of 
both  arms,  and  with  this  impetuous  movement, 
I  was  more  than  ever  conscious  of  the  strong 
smell  of  spirits  with  which  he  seemed  always 
saturated.  ...  *  Uncle,  if  you  knew  what  my 
life  has  been.  ...  If  it  hadn't  been  for  sorrow, 
a  cruel  fate.  .  ,  .  But  now  I  swear,  I  swear,  I 
29 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

will  mend  my  ways,  I  will  show  you.  .  .  , 
Uncle,  I  've  never  told  a  lie — you  can  ask 
whom  you  like.  .  .  .  I  'm  honest,  but  I  'm  an 
unlucky  fellow,  uncle  ;  I  've  known  no  kindness 
from  any  one.  .  .  .' 

Here  he  broke  down  finally  into  sobs.  I 
tried  to  soothe  him,  and  succeeded  so  far  that 
when  we  reached  home  Misha  had  long  been 
lost  in  a  heavy  sleep,  with  his  head  on  my 
knees. 


VII 


He  was  at  once  assigned  a  room  for  himself, 
and  at  once,  first  thing,  taken  to  the  bath, 
which  was  absolutely  essential.  All  his  clothes, 
and  his  dagger  and  cap  and  torn  boots,  were 
carefully  put  away  in  a  loft ;  he  was  dressed  in 
clean  linen,  slippers,  and  some  clothes  of  mine, 
which,  as  is  always  the  way  with  poor  relations, 
at  once  seemed  to  adapt  themselves  to  his  size 
and  figure.  When  he  came  to  table,  washed, 
clean,  and  fresh,  he  seemed  so  touched  and 
happy,  he  beamed  all  over  with  such  joyful 
gratitude,  that  I  too  felt  moved  and  joyful.  .  .  , 
His  face  was  completely  transformed.  .  .  , 
Boys  of  twelve  have  faces  like  that  on  Easter 
Sundays,  after  the  communion,  when,  thickly 
pomaded,  in  new  jacket  and  starched  collars, 
they  come  to  exchange  Easter  greetings  with 
30 


A   DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

their  parents.  Misha  was  continually — with  a 
sort  of  cautious  incredulity — feeling  himself 
and  repeating :  '  What  does  it  mean  ?  .  .  .  Am 
I  in  heaven  ? '  The  next  day  he  announced 
that  he  had  not  slept  all  night,  he  had  been  in 
such  ecstasy. 

I  had  living  in  my  house  at  that  time 
an  old  aunt  with  her  niece ;  both  of  them 
were  extremely  disturbed  when  they  heard  of 
Misha's  presence ;  they  could  not  comprehend 
how  I  could  have  asked  him  into  my  house! 
There  were  very  ugly  rumours  about  him.  But 
in  the  first  place,  I  knew  he  was  always  very 
courteous  with  ladies  ;  and,  secondly,  I  counted 
on  his  promises  of  amendment.  And,  in  fact, 
for  the  first  two  days  of  his  stay  under  my  roof 
Misha  not  merely  justified  my  expectations 
but  surpassed  them,  while  the  ladies  of  the 
household  were  simply  enchanted  with  him. 
He  played  piquet  with  the  old  lady,  helped 
her  to  wind  her  worsted,  showed  her  two  new 
games  of  patience  ;  for  the  niece,  who  had  a 
small  voice,  he  played  accompaniments  on  the 
piano,  and  read  Russian  and  French  poetry. 
He  told  both  the  ladies  lively  but  discreet 
anecdotes  ;  in  fact,  he  showed  them  every  atten- 
tion, so  that  they  repeatedly  expressed  their 
surprise  to  me,  and  the  old  lady  even  observed 
how  unjust  people  sometimes  were.  .  .  .  The 
things — the  things  they  had  said  of  him  .  .  . 
and  he  such  a  quiet  fellow,  and  so  polite  .  .  , 
31 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

poor  Misha !  It  is  true  that  at  table  *  poor 
Misha*  licked  his  lips  in  a  rather  peculiar, 
hurried  way,  if  he  simply  glanced  at  the  bottle. 
But  I  had  only  to  shake  my  finger  at  him,  and 
he  would  turn  his  eyes  upwards,  and  lay  his  hand 
on  his  heart  .  .  .  as  if  to  say,  I  have  sworn.  .  .  , 
*I  am  regenerated  now,'  he  assured  me.  .  .  . 
'Well,  God  grant  it  be  so,'  was  my  thought. 
.  .  .  But  this  regeneration  did  not  last  long. 

The  first  two  days  he  was  very  talkative  and 
cheerful.  But  even  on  the  third  day  he  seemed 
somehow  subdued,  though  he  remained,  as 
before,  with  the  ladies  and  tried  to  entertain 
them.  A  half  mournful,  half  dreamy  expres- 
sion flitted  now  and  then  over  his  face,  and  the 
face  itself  was  paler  and  looked  thinner.  *  Are 
you  unwell?'  I  asked  him. 

*  Yes,'  he  answered  ;  '  my  head  aches  a  little.' 
On  the  fourth  day  he  was  completely  silent ; 
for  the  most  part  he  sat  in  a  corner,  hanging 
his  head  disconsolately,  and  his  dejected  appear- 
ance worked  upon  the  compassionate  sympa- 
thies of  the  two  ladies,  who  now,  in  their  turn, 
tried  to  amuse  him.  At  table  he  ate  nothing, 
stared  at  his  plate,  and  rolled  up  pellets  of 
bread.  On  the  fifth  day  the  feeling  of  com- 
passion in  the  ladies  began  to  be  replaced  by 
other  emotions — uneasiness  and  even  alarm. 
Misha  was  so  strange,  he  held  aloof  from  people, 
and  kept  moving  along  close  to  the  walls,  as 
though  trying  to  steal  by  unnoticed,  and  sud- 
32 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

denly  looking  round  as  though  some  one  had 
called  him.  And  what  had  become  of  his  rosy 
colour?  It  seemed  covered  over  by  a  layer 
of  earth.     *  Are  you  still  unwell  ? '  I  asked  him. 

*  No,  I  'm  all  right,'  he  answered  abruptly. 
'Are  you  dull?' 

*  Why  should  I  be  dull  ?  '  But  he  turned 
away  and  would  not  look  me  in  the  face. 

'Or  is  it  that  wretchedness  come  over  you 
again  ? '  To  this  he  made  no  reply.  So  passed 
another  twenty-four  hours. 

Next  day  my  aunt  ran  into  my  room  in  a 
state  of  great  excitement,  declaring  that  she 
would  leave  the  house  with  her  niece,  if  Misha 
was  to  remain  in  it. 

*  Why  so?' 

'Why,  we  are  dreadfully  scared  with  him. 
,  ..  .  He's  not  a  man,  he's  a  wolf, — nothing 
better  than  a  wolf.  He  keeps  moving  and 
moving  about,  and  doesn't  speak — and  looks 
so  wild.  .  .  .  He  almost  gnashes  his  teeth  at 
me.  My  Katia,  you  know,  is  so  nervous.  .  ,  . 
She  was  so  struck  with  him  the  first  day.  .  .  . 
I  'm  in  terror  for  her,  and  indeed  for  myself 
too.'  ...  I  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  my 
aunt.  I  couldn't,  anyway,  turn  Misha  out, 
after  inviting  him. 

He  relieved    me   himself  from   my  difficult 

position.     The  same  day, — I  was  still  sitting  in 

my  own  room, — suddenly  I  heard  behind  me  a 

husky  and   angry  voice :    '  Nikolai  Nikolaitch, 

c  33 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

Nikolai  Nikolaitch  ! '     I  looked  round  ;  Misha 
was  standing  in  the  doorway  with  a  face  that 
was  fearful,  black-looking  and  distorted.    'Niko- 
lai Nikolaitch!'  he  repeated  •  .  .  (not  'uncle 
now). 

*  What  do  you  want? * 

'  Let  me  go  ...  at  once  I  * 

'Why?' 

'  Let  me  go,  or  I  shall  do  mischief,  I  shall 
set  the  house  on  fire  or  cut  some  one's  throat' 
Misha  suddenly  began  trembling.  '  Tell  them 
to  give  me  back  my  clothes,  and  let  a  cart 
take  me  to  the  highroad,  and  let  me  have 
some  money,  however  little  ! ' 

*  Are  you  displeased,  then,  at  anything  ?  * 

'  I  can't  live  like  this  ! '  he  shrieked  at  the  top 
of  his  voice.  *  I  can't  live  in  your  respectable, 
thrice-accursed  house !  It  makes  me  sick,  and 
ashamed  to  live  so  quietly!  .  .  .  How  you 
manage  to  endure  it  1 ' 

'That  is,'  I  interrupted  in  my  turn,  'you 
mean — you  can't  live  without  drink. .  . .' 

'  Well,  yes  !  yes  ! '  he  shrieked  again  :  '  only 
let  me  go  to  my  brethren,  my  friends,  to  the 
beggars!  .  .  .  Away  from  your  respectable, 
loathsome  species ! ' 

I  was  about  to  remind  him  of  his  sworn 
promises,  but  Misha's  frenzied  look,  his  break- 
ing voice,  the  convulsive  tremor  in  his  limbs, 
— it  was  all  so  awful,  that  I  made  haste  to 
get  rid  of  him  ;  I  said  that  his  clothes  should 
34 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

be  given  him  at  once,  and  a  cart  got  ready ; 
and  taking  a  note  for  twenty-five  roubles  out 
of  a  drawer,  I  laid  it  on  the  table.  Misha  had 
begun  to  advance  in  a  menacing  way  towards 
me, — but  on  this,  suddenly  he  stopped,  his  face 
worked,  flushed,  he  struck  himself  on  the 
breast,  the  tears  rushed  from  his  eyes,  and 
muttering,  *  Uncle !  angel !  I  know  I'm  a 
ruined  man  !  thanks  !  thanks  !'  he  snatched  up 
the  note  and  ran  away. 

An  hour  later  he  was  sitting  in  the  cart 
dressed  once  more  in  his  Circassian  costume, 
again  rosy  and  cheerful ;  and  when  the  horses 
started,  he  yelled,  tore  off  the  peaked  cap,  and, 
waving  it  over  his  head,  made  bow  after  bow. 
Just  as  he  was  going  off,  he  had  given  me  a 
long  and  warm  embrace,  and  whispered;  *  Bene- 
factor, benefactor  .  .  .  there 's  no  saving  me ! ' 
He  even  ran  to  the  ladies  and  kissed  their 
hands,  fell  on  his  knees,  called  upon  God,  and 
begged  their  forgiveness  !  Katia  I  found  after- 
wards in  tears. 

The  coachman,  with  whom  Misha  had  set 
off,  on  coming  home  informed  me  that  he  had 
driven  him  to  the  first  tavern  on  the  highroad 
— and  that  there  *his  honour  had  stuck,'  had 
begun  treating  every  one  indiscriminately — 
and  had  quickly  sunk  into  unconsciousness. 

From  that  day  I  never  came  across  Misha 
again,  but  his  ultimate  fate  I  learned  in  the 
following  manner. 

35 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 


VIII 

Three  years  later,  I  was  again  at  home  in 
the  country  ;  all  of  a  sudden  a  servant  came  in 
and  announced  that  Madame  Poltyev  was  ask- 
ing to  see  me.  I  knew  no  Madame  Poltyev, 
and  the  servant,  who  made  this  announcement, 
for  some  unknown  reason  smiled  sarcastically. 
To  my  glance  of  inquiry,  he  responded  that 
the  lady  asking  for  me  was  young,  poorly 
dressed,  and  had  come  in  a  peasant's  cart  with 
one  horse,  which  she  was  driving  herself!  I 
told  him  to  ask  Madame  Poltyev  up  to  my 
room. 

I  saw  a  woman  of  five-and-twenty,  in  the 
dress  of  the  small  tradesman  class,  with  a  large 
kerchief  on  her  head.  Her  face  was  simple, 
roundish,  not  without  charm  ;  she  looked 
dejected  and  gloomy,  and  was  shy  and  awkward 
in  her  movements. 

*  You  are  Madame  Poltyev  ? '  I  inquired, 
and  I  asked  her  to  sit  down. 

'  Yes,'  she  answered  in  a  subdued  voice,  and 
she  did  not  sit  down.  '  I  am  the  widow  of  your 
nephew,  Mihail  Andreevitch  Poltyev.' 

*  Is  Mihail  Andreevitch  dead  ?  Has  he  been 
dead  long?     But  sit  down,  I  beg.' 

She  sank  into  a  chair. 
*It's  two  months.' 

*  And  had  you  been  married  to  him  long? ' 

36 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

*  I  had  been  a  year  with  him.' 

*  Where  have  you  come  from  now  ?  * 

*  From  out  Tula  way.  .  .  .  There 's  a  village 
there,  Znamenskoe-Glushkovo — perhaps  you 
may  know  it.  I  am  the  daughter  of  the  deacon 
there.  Mihail  Andreitch  and  I  lived  there. 
.  .  .  He  lived  in  my  father's  house.  We  were 
a  whole  year  together.' 

The  young  woman's  lips  twitched  a  little, 
and  she  put  her  hand  up  to  them.  She  seemed 
to  be  on  the  point  of  tears,  but  she  controlled 
herself,  and  cleared  her  throat. 

'Mihail  Andreitch,'  she  went  on  :  *  before  his 
death  enjoined  upon  me  to  go  to  you  ;  "  You 
must  be  sure  to  go,"  said  he !  And  he  told  me 
to  thank  you  for  all  your  goodness,  and  to  give 
you  .  .  .  this  .  .  .  see,  this  little  thing  (she  took 
a  small  packet  out  of  her  pocket)  which  he 
always  had  about  him.  .  .  .  And  Mihail  Andre- 
itch said,  if  you  would  be  pleased  to  accept  it 
in  memory  of  him,  if  you  would  not  disdain  it. 
..."There's  nothing  else,"  said  he,  "I  can 
give  him  "...  that  is,  you.  .  .  .' 

In  the  packet  there  was  a  little  silver  cup 
with  the  monogram  of  Misha's  mother.  This 
cup  I  had  often  seen  in  Misha's  hands,  and 
once  he  had  even  said  to  me,  speaking  of  some 
poor  fellow,  that  he  really  was  destitute,  since 
he  had  neither  cup  nor  bowl,  *while  I,  see,  have 
this  anyway.* 

I  thanked  her,  took  the  cup,  and  asked; 
37 


A  DESPERATE  CHARACTER 

*Of  what  complaint  had  Misha  died?  No 
doubt  .  .  .' 

Then  I  bit  my  tongue  .  .  .  but  the  young 
woman  understood  my  unuttered  hint.  .  .  .  She 
took  a  swift  glance  at  me,  then  looked  down 
again,  smiled  mournfully,  and  said  at  once : 
'  Oh  no  !  he  had  quite  given  that  up,  ever  since 
he  got  to  know  me  .  .  .  But  he  had  no  health 
at  all  1  .  .  .  It  was  shattered  quite.  As  soon 
as  he  gave  up  drink,  he  fell  into  ill  health 
directly.  He  became  so  steady ;  he  always 
wanted  to  help  father  in  his  land  or  in  the 
garden,  ...  or  any  other  work  there  might 
be  ...  in  spite  of  his  being  of  noble  birth. 
But  how  could  he  get  the  strength?  ...  At 
writing,  too,  he  tried  to  work  ;  as  you  know,  he 
could  do  that  work  capitally,  but  his  hands 
shook,  and  he  couldn't  hold  the  pen  properly. 
.  .  .  He  was  always  finding  fault  with  himself; 
"  I  *m  a  white-handed  poor  creature,"  he  would 
say;  "I've  never  done  any  good  to  anybody, 
never  helped,  never  laboured  !"  He  worried 
himself  very  much  about  that.  ...  He  used  to 
say  that  our  people  labour, — but  what  use  are 
we?  .  .  .  Ah,  Nikolai  Nikolaitch,  he  was  a  good 
man — and  he  was  fond  of  me  .  .  .  and  I  .  ,  . 
Ah,  pardon  me.  .  . .' 

Here  the  young  woman  wept  outright.  I 
would  have  consoled  her,  but  I  did  not  know 
how. 

'  Have  you  a  child  left  you  ? '  I  asked  at  last. 
38 


A   DESPERATE   CHARACTER 

She  sighed.  'No,  no  child.  ...  Is  it  likely?' 
And  her  tears  flowed  faster  than  ever. 

*And  so  that  was  how  Misha's  troubled 
wanderings  had  ended,'  the  old  man  P.  wound 
up  his  narrative.  *  You  will  agree  with  me,  I  am 
sure,  that  I  'm  right  in  calling  him  a  desperate 
character  ;  but  you  will  most  likely  agree  too 
that  he  was  not  like  the  desperate  characters 
of  to-day  ;  still,  a  philosopher,  you  must  admit, 
would  find  a  family  likeness  between  him  and 
them.  In  him  and  in  them  there 's  the  thirst 
for  self-destruction,  the  wretchedness,  the  dis- 
satisfaction. .  .  .  And  what  it  all  comes  from, 
I  leave  the  philosopher  to  decide.' 

BOUGIVALLE,  November  1881. 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

Fifteen  years  ago — began  H. — official  duties 
compelled    me   to   spend   a   few  days   in   the 

principal  town  of  the  province  of  T .     I 

stopped  at  a  very  fair  hotel,  which  had  been 
established  six  months  before  my  arrival  by 
a  Jewish  tailor,  who  had  grown  rich.  I  am 
told  that  it  did  not  flourish  long,  which  is 
often  the  case  with  us ;  but  I  found  it  still 
in  its  full  splendour  :  the  new  furniture  emitted 
cracks  like  pistol-shots  at  night ;  the  bed-linen, 
table-cloths,  and  napkins  smelt  of  soap,  and 
the  painted  floors  reeked  of  olive  oil,  which, 
however,  in  the  opinion  of  the  waiter,  an  ex- 
ceedingly elegant  but  not  very  clean  individual, 
tended  to  prevent  the  spread  of  insects.  This 
waiter,  a  former  valet  of  Prince  G.'s,  was  con- 
spicuous for  his  free-and-easy  manners  and  his 
self-assurance.  He  invariably  wore  a  second- 
hand frockcoat  and  slippers  trodden  down  at 
heel,  carried  a  table-napkin  under  his  arm,  and 
had  a  multitude  of  pimples  on  his  cheeks. 
With  a  free  sweeping  movement  of  his  moist 
hands  he  gave  utterance  to  brief  but  pregnant 
40 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

observations.  He  showed  a  patronising  tn- 
terest  in  me,  as  a  person  capable  of  appreciat- 
ing his  culture  and  knowledge  of  the  world  ; 
but  he  regarded  his  own  lot  in  life  with  a 
rather  disillusioned  eye.  *  No  doubt  about  it,' 
he  said  to  me  one  day ;  *  ours  is  a  poor  sort 
of  position  nowadays.  May  be  sent  flying  any 
day!'     His  name  was  Ardalion. 

I  had  to  make  a  few  visits  to  official  persons 
in  the  town.  Ardalion  procured  me  a  coach 
and  groom,  both  alike  shabby  and  loose 
in  the  joints ;  but  the  groom  wore  livery,  the 
carriage  was  adorned  with  an  heraldic  crest. 
After  making  all  my  official  calls,  I  drove  to 
see  a  country  gentleman,  an  old  friend  of  my 
father's,  who  had  been  a  long  time  settled  in 
the  town.  ...  I  had  not  met  him  for  twenty 
years ;  he  had  had  time  to  get  married,  to 
bring  up  a  good-sized  family,  to  be  left  a 
widower  and  to  make  his  fortune.  His  busi- 
ness was  with  government  monopolies,  that  is 
to  say;  he  lent  contractors  for  monopolies  loans 
at  heavy  interest.  ...  *  There  is  always  honour 
in  risk,'  they  say,  though  indeed  the  risk  was 
small. 

In  the  course  of  our  conversation  there  came 
into  the  room  with  hesitating  steps,  but  as 
lightly  as  though  on  tiptoe,  a  young  girl  of  about 
seventeen,  delicate-looking  and  thin.  *  Here,' 
said  my  acquaintance, '  is  my  eldest  daughter 
Sophia ;  let  me  introduce  you.  She  takes  my 
41 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

poor  wife's  place,  looks  after  the  house,  arid 
takes  care  of  her  brothers  and  sisters.'  I 
bowed  a  second  time  to  the  girl  who  had 
come  in  (she  meanwhile  dropped  into  a  chair 
without  speaking),  and  thought  to  myself  that 
she  did  not  look  much  like  housekeeping  or 
looking  after  children.  Her  face  was  quite 
childish,  round,  with  small,  pleasing,  but  im- 
mobile features ;  the  blue  eyes,  under  high, 
also  immobile  and  irregular  eyebrows,  had  an 
intent,  almost  astonished  look,  as  though  they 
had  just  observed  something  unexpected  ;  the 
full  little  mouth  with  the  lifted  upper  lip,  not 
only  did  not  smile,  but  seemed  as  though 
altogether  innocent  of  such  a  practice ;  the 
rosy  flush  under  the  tender  skin  stood  in  soft, 
diffused  patches  on  the  cheeks,  and  neither 
paled  nor  deepened.  The  fluffy,  fair  hair  hung 
in  light  clusters  each  side  of  the  little  head. 
Her  bosom  breathed  softly,  and  her  arms  were 
pressed  somehow  awkwardly  and  severely 
against  her  narrow  waist.  Her  blue  gown 
fell  without  folds — like  a  child's — to  her  little 
feet.  The  general  impression  this  girl  made 
upon  me  was  not  one  of  morbidity,  but  of 
something  enigmatical.  I  saw  before  me  not 
simply  a  shy,  provincial  miss,  but  a  creature 
of  a  special  type — that  I  could  not  make  out. 
This  type  neither  attracted  nor  repelled  me ; 
I  did  not  fully  understand  it,  and  only  felt 
that  I  had  never  come  across  a  nature  more 
42 


A   STRANGE  STORY 

Sincere.  Pity  .  .  .  yes  1  pity  was  the  feeling 
that  rose  up  within  me  at  the  sight  of  this 
young,  serious,  keenly  alert  life — God  knows 
why !  *  Not  of  this  earth/  was  my  thought, 
though  there  was  nothing  exactly  'ideal'  in 
the  expression  of  the  face,  and  though  Made- 
moiselle Sophie  had  obviously  come  into  the 
drawing-room  in  fulfilment  of  those  duties 
of  lady  of  the  house  to  which  her  father  had 
referred. 

He  began  to  talk  of  life  in  the  town  of 
T ,  of  the  social  amusements  and  advan- 
tages it  offered.  'We're  very  quiet  here,'  he 
observed  ;  *  the  governor 's  a  melancholy  fellow  ; 
the  marshal  of  the  province  is  a  bachelor.  But 
there  '11  be  a  big  ball  in  the  Hall  of  the  Nobility 
the  day  after  to-morrow.  I  advise  you  to  go  ; 
there  are  some  pretty  girls  here.  And  you'll 
see  all  our  intelligentsi  too.' 

My  acquaintance,  as  a  man  of  university 
education,  was  fond  of  using  learned  expres- 
sions. He  pronounced  them  with  irony,  but 
also  with  respect.  Besides,  we  all  know  that 
moneylending,  together  with  respectability, 
developes  a  certain  thoughtfulness  in  men. 

'Allow  me  to  ask,  will  you  be  at  the  ball?' 
I  said,  turning  to  my  friend's  daughter.  I 
wanted  to  hear  the  sound  of  her  voice. 

'  Papa  intends  to  go/  she  answered, '  and  I 
with  him.' 

43 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

Her  voice  turned  out  to  be  soft  and  deliberate, 
and  she  articulated  every  syllable  fully,  as 
though  she  were  puzzled. 

*  In  that  case,  allow  me  to  ask  you  for  the 
first  quadrille/ 

She  bent  her  head  in  token  of  assent,  and 
even  then  did  not  smile. 

I  soon  withdrew,  and  I  remember  the  ex- 
pression in  her  eyes,  fixed  steadily  upon  me, 
struck  me  as  so  strange  that  I  involuntarily 
looked  over  my  shoulder  to  see  whether  there 
were  not  some  one  or  some  thing  she  was  look- 
ing at  behind  my  back. 

I  returned  to  the  hotel,  and  after  dining  on 
the  never-varied  '  soupe-julienne,'  cutlets,  and 
green  peas,  and  grouse  cooked  to  a  dry,  black 
chip,  I  sat  down  on  the  sofa  and  gave  myself 
up  to  reflection.  The  subject  of  my  medita- 
tions was  Sophia,  this  enigmatical  daughter 
of  my  old  acquaintance ;  but  Ardalion,  who 
was  clearing  the  table,  explained  my  thought- 
fulness  in  his  own  way ;  he  set  it  down  to 
boredom. 

}*  There  is  very  little  in  the  way  of  enter- 
tainment for  visitors  in  our  town,'  he  began 
with  his  usual  easy  condescension,  while  he 
went  on  at  the  same  time  flapping  the  backs 
of  the  chairs  with  a  dirty  dinner-napkin — a 
practice  peculiar,  as  you're  doubtless  aware, 
to  servants  of  superior  education.    '  Very  little ! ' 


A   STRANGE  STORY 

He  paused,  and  the  huge  clock  on  the  wall, 
with  a  lilac  rose  on  its  white  face,  seemed 
in  its  monotonous,  sleepy  tick,  to  repeat  his 
words  :  '  Ve-ry  !  ve-ry  ! '  it  ticked.  '  No  con- 
certs, nor  theatres,'  pursued  Ardalion  (he  had 
travelled  abroad  with  his  master,  and  had  all 
but  stayed  in  Paris ;  he  knew  much  better 
than  to  mispronounce  this  last  word,  as  the 
peasants  do) — '  nor  dances,  for  example  ;  nor 
evening  receptions  among  the  nobility  and 
gentry — there  is  nothing  of  the  kind  whatever.' 
(He  paused  a  moment,  probably  to  allow  me  I 
to  observe  the  choiceness  of  his  diction.)  *  They  | 
positively  visit  each  other  but  seldom.  Every 
one  sits  like  a  pigeon  on  its  perch.  And  so  it 
comes  to  pass  that  visitors  have  simply  no- 
where to  go.' 

Ardalion  stole  a  sidelong  glance  at  me. 

*  But  there  is  one  thing,'  he  went  on,  speak- 
ing with  a  drawl,  *in  case  you  should  feel 
that  way  inclined.  .  .  .' 

He  glanced  at  me  a  second  time  and  posi- 
tively leered,  but  I  suppose  did  not  observe 
signs  of  the  requisite  inclination  in  me. 

The  polished  waiter  moved  towards  the 
door,  pondered  a  moment,  came  back,  and  after 
fidgeting  about  uneasily  a  little,  bent  down 
to  my  ear,  and  with  a  playful  smile  said  : 

'  Would  you  not  like  to  behold  the  dead  ? ' 

I  stared  at  him  in  perplexity. 
45 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

'Yes,'  he  went  on,  speaking  in  a  whisper; 
'there  is  a  man  like  that  here.  He's  a  simple 
artisan,  and  can't  even  read  and  write,  but  he 
does  marvellous  things.  If  you,  for  example, 
go  to  him  and  desire  to  see  any  one  of  your 
departed  friends,  he  will  be  sure  to  show  him 
you.' 

'  How  does  he  do  it?* 

'That's  his  secret.  For  though  he's  an 
uneducated  man — to  speak  bluntly,  illiterate — 
he's  very  great  in  godliness!  Greatly  re- 
spected he  is  among  the  merchant  gentry !  * 

*  And  does  every  one  in  the  town  know  about 
this?' 

*  Those  who  need  to  know ;  but,  there,  of 
course — there's  danger  from  the  police  to  be 
guarded  against.  Because,  say  what  you  will, 
such  doings  are  forbidden  anyway,  and  for  the 
common  people  are  a  temptation  ;  the  common 
people — the  mob,  we  all  know,  quickly  come 
to  blows.' 

*  Has  he  shown  you  the  dead  ? '  I  asked 
Ardalion. 

Ardalion  nodded.  '  He  has ;  my  father  he 
brought  before  me  as  if  living.' 

I  stared  at  Ardalion.  He  laughed  and 
played  with  his  dinner-napkin,  and  condescend- 
ingly, but  unflinchingly,  looked  at  me. 

'But  this  is  very  curious!'  I  cried  at  last. 
'Couldn't  I  make  the  acquaintance  of  this 
artisan  ? ' 

46 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

*  You  can't  go  straight  to  him  ;  but  one  can 
act  through  his  mother.  She's  a  respectable 
old  woman  ;  she  sells  pickled  apples  on  the 
bridge.     If  you  wish  it,  I  will  ask  her.' 

*  Please  do.' 

Ardalion  coughed  behind  his  hand.  *And 
a  gratuity,  whatever  you  think  fit,  nothing 
much,  of  course,  should  also  be  handed  to 
her — the  old  lady.  And  I  on  my  side  will 
make  her  understand  that  she  has  nothing  to 
fear  from  you,  as  you  are  a  visitor  here,  a 
gentleman — and  of  course  you  can  understand 
that  this  is  a  secret,  and  will  not  in  any  case 
get  her  into  any  unpleasantness.' 

Ardalion  took  the  tray  in  one  hand,  and 
with  a  graceful  swing  of  the  tray  and  his 
own  person,  turned  towards  the  door. 

*  So  I  may  reckon  upon  you ! '  I  shouted 
after  him. 

*  You  may  trust  me ! '  I  heard  his  self- 
satisfied  voice  say:  'We'll  talk  to  the  old 
woman  and  transmit  you  her  answer  exactly.' 

I  will  not  enlarge  on  the  train  of  thought 
aroused  in  me  by  the  extraordinary  fact  Arda- 
lion had  related  ;  but  I  am  prepared  to  admit 
that  I  awaited  the  promised  reply  with  im- 
patience. Late  in  the  evening  Ardalion  came 
to  me  and  announced  that  to  his  annoyance 
he  could  not  find  the  old  woman.  I  handed 
him,  however,  by  way  of  encouragement,  a 
47 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

three-rouble  note.  The  next  morning  he 
appeared  again  in  my  room  with  a  beaming 
countenance ;  the  old  woman  had  consented 
to  see  me. 

*  Hi !  boy ! '  shouted  Ardalion  in  the  corridor  ; 
'  Hi !  apprentice  !  Come  here  ! '  A  boy  of  six 
came  up,  grimed  all  over  with  soot  like  a 
kitten,  with  a  shaved  head,  perfectly  bald  in 
places,  in  a  torn,  striped  smock,  and  huge 
goloshes  on  his  bare  feet.  'You  take  the 
gentleman,  you  know  where,'  said  Ardalion, 
addressing  the  *  apprentice/  and  pointing  to 
me.  'And  you,  sir,  when  you  arrive,  ask  for 
Mastridia  Karpovna.' 

The  boy  uttered  a  hoarse  grunt,  and  we  set 
off. 

We  walked  rather  a  long  while  about  the 

unpaved  streets  of  the  town  of  T ;  at  last 

in  one  of  them,  almost  the  most  deserted 
and  desolate  of  all,  my  guide  stopped  before 
an  old  two-story  wooden  house,  and  wiping 
his  nose  all  over  his  smock  -  sleeve,  said  : 
'  Here ;  go  to  the  right.'  I  passed  through 
the  porch  into  the  outer  passage,  stumbled 
towards  my  right,  a  low  door  creaked  on  rusty 
hinges,  and  I  saw  before  me  a  stout  old  woman 
in  a  brown  jacket  lined  with  hare-skin,  with  a 
parti-coloured  kerchief  on  her  head. 

'Mastridia  Karpovna?'  I  inquired. 

'  The  same,  at  your  service,'  the  old  woman 
48 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

replied  in  a   piping  voice.     '  Please  walk   in. 
Won't  you  take  a  chair?' 

The  room  into  which  the  old  woman  con- 
ducted me  was  so  littered  up  with  every  sort 
of  rubbish,  rags,  pillows,  feather-beds,  sacks, 
that  one  could  hardly  turn  round  in  it.  The 
sunlight  barely  struggled  in  through  two  dusty 
little  windows ;  in  one  corner,  from  behind  a 
heap  of  boxes  piled  on  one  another,  there  came 
a  feeble  whimpering  and  wailing.  ...  I  could 
not  tell  from  what ;  perhaps  a  sick  baby,  or 
perhaps  a  puppy.  I  sat  down  on  a  chair,  and 
the  old  woman  stood  up  directly  facing  me. 
Her  face  was  yellow,  half  -  transparent  like 
wax ;  her  lips  were  so  fallen  in  that  they 
formed  a  single  straight  line  in  the  midst  of 
a  multitude  of  wrinkles ;  a  tuft  of  white  hair 
stuck  out  from  below  the  kerchief  on  her  head, 
but  the  sunken  grey  eyes  peered  out  alertly 
and  cleverly  from  under  the  bony  overhanging 
brow ;  and  the  sharp  nose  fairly  stuck  out  like 
a  spindle,  fairly  sniffed  the  air  as  if  it  would 
say:  I'm  a  smart  one!  'Well,  you're  no 
fool ! '  was  my  thought  At  the  same  time  she 
smelt  of  spirits. 

I  explained  to  her  the  object  of  my  visit,  of 
which,  however,  as  I  observed,  she  must  be 
aware.  She  listened  to  me,  blinked  her  eyes 
rapidly,  and  only  lifted  her  nose  till  it  stuck 
out  still  more  sharply,  as  though  she  were 
making  ready  to  peck. 
D  49 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

*To  be  sure,  to  be  sure/  she  said  at  last; 
'Ardalion  Matveitch  did  say  something,  cer- 
tainly ;  my  son  Vassinka's  art  you  were  want- 
ing. .  .  .  But  we  can't  be  sure,  my  dear 
sir.  .  .  .* 

*  Oh,  why  so  ? '  I  interposed.  *  As  far  as  I  'm 
concerned,  you  may  feel  perfectly  easy.  .  .  , 
I  'm  not  an  informer.* 

'  Oh,  mercy  on  us,'  the  old  woman  caught 
me  up  hurriedly,  '  what  do  you  mean  ? 
Could  we  dare  to  suppose  such  a  thing  of 
your  honour!  And  on  what  ground  could 
one  inform  against  us  ?  Do  you  suppose  it 's 
some  sinful  contrivance  of  ours?  No,  sir,  my 
son's  not  the  one  to  lend  himself  to  anything 
wicked  ...  or  give  way  to  any  sort  of  witch- 
craft. .  .  .  God  forbid  indeed,  holy  Mother  of 
Heaven !  (The  old  woman  crossed  herself 
three  times.)  He's  the  foremost  in  prayer 
and  fasting  in  the  whole  province ;  the  fore- 
most, your  honour,  he  is  !  And  that's  just  it : 
great  grace  has  been  vouchsafed  to  him.  Yes, 
indeed.  It's  not  the  work  of  his  hands.  It's 
from  on  high,  my  dear ;  so  it  is.' 

*  So  you  agree  ? '  I  asked  :  *  when  can  I  see 
your  son  ? ' 

The  old  woman  blinked  again  and  shifted 
her  rolled  up  handkerchief  from  one  sleeve  to 
the  other. 

*0h,  well,  sir — well,  sir,  I  can't  say.' 

*  Allow  me,  Mastridia   Karpovna,   to   hand 

so 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

you  this,'  I  interrupted,  and  I  gave  her  a  ten- 
rouble  note. 

The  old  woman  clutched  it  at  once  in  her 
fat,  crooked  fingers,  which  recalled  the  fleshy 
claws  of  an  owl,  quickly  slipped  it  into  her 
sleeve,  pondered  a  little,  and  as  though  she 
had  suddenly  reached  a  decision,  slapped  her 
thighs  with  her  open  hand. 

'  Come  here  this  evening  a  little  after  seven,' 
she  said,  not  in  her  previous  voice,  but  in  quite 
a  different  one,  more  solemn  and  subdued ; 
'  only  not  to  this  room,  but  kindly  go  straight 
up  to  the  floor  above,  and  you  '11  find  a  door  to 
your  left,  and  you  open  that  door  ;  and  you  '11 
go,  your  honour,  into  an  empty  room,  and  in 
that  room  you  '11  see  a  chair.  Sit  you  down 
on  that  chair  and  wait ;  and  whatever  you  see, 
don't  utter  a  word  and  don't  do  anything ;  and 
please  don't  speak  to  my  son  either ;  for  he 's 
but  young  yet,  and  he  suffers  from  fits.  He  's 
very  easily  scared;  he'll  tremble  and  shake 
like  any  chicken  ...  a  sad  thing  it  is  !' 

I  looked  at  Mastridia.  'You  say  he's 
young,  but  since  he  's  your  son  .  .  .' 

*  In  the  spirit,  sir,  in  the  spirit.  Many  's  the 
orphan  I  have  under  my  care ! '  she  added, 
wagging  her  head  in  the  direction  of  the 
corner,  from  which  came  the  plaintive  whim- 
per. *0 — O  God  Almighty,  holy  Mother  of 
God !  And  do  you,  your  honour,  before  you 
come  here,  think  well  which  of  your  deceased 
51 


A  STRANGE   STORY 

relations  or  friends — the  kingdom  of  Heaven 
to  them  ! — you  're  desirous  of  seeing.  Go 
over  your  deceased  friends,  and  whichever  you 
select,  keep  him  in  your  mind,  keep  him  all 
the  while  till  my  son  comes  ! ' 

*  Why,  mustn't  I  tell  your  son  whom  .  .  / 

*  Nay,  nay,  sir,  not  one  word.  He  will  find 
out  what  he  needs  in  your  thoughts  himself. 
You've  only  to  keep  your  friend  thoroughly 
in  mind  ;  and  at  your  dinner  drink  a  drop  of 
wine — just  two  or  three  glasses  ;  wine  never 
comes  amiss.'  The  old  woman  laughed, 
licked  her  lips,  passed  her  hand  over  her 
mouth,  and  sighed. 

*So  at  half-past  seven?'  I  queried,  getting 
up  from  my  chair. 

*  At  half-past  seven,  your  honour,  at  half- 
past  seven,'  Mastridia  Karpovna  replied  re- 
assuringly. 

I  took  leave  of  the  old  woman  and  went 
back  to  the  hotel.  1  did  not  doubt  that  they 
were  going  to  make  a  fool  of  me,  but  in  what 
way? — that  was  what  excited  my  curiosity. 
With  Ardalion  I  did  not  exchange  more  than 
two  or  three  words.  *  Did  she  see  you  ? '  he 
asked  me,  knitting  his  brow,  and  on  my 
affirmative  reply,  he  exclaimed :  *  The  old 
woman 's  as  good  as  any  statesman ! '  I  set 
to  work,  in  accordance  with  the  'statesman's' 
counsel,  to  run  over  my  deceased  friends. 
52 


A   STRANGE   STORY 

After  rather  prolonged  hesitation  I  fixed,  at 
last,  on  an  old  man  who  had  long  been  dead,  a  | 
Frenchman,  once  my  tutor.  I  selected  him  | 
not  because  he  had  any  special  attraction  for 
me  ;  but  his  whole  figure  was  so  original,  so 
unlike  any  figure  of  to-day,  that  it  would  be 
utterly  impossible  to  imitate  it.  He  had  an 
enormous  head,  fluffy  white  hair  combed 
straight  back,  thick  black  eyebrows,  a  hawk 
nose,  and  two  large  warts  of  a  pinkish  hue  in 
the  middle  of  the  forehead  ;  he  used  to  wear  a 
green  frockcoat  with  smooth  brass  buttons,  a 
striped  waistcoat  with  a  stand  -  up  collar,  a 
jabot  and  lace  cuffs.  *  If  he  shows  me  my 
old  Dessaire,'  I  thought, '  well,  I  shall  have  to 
admit  that  he 's  a  sorcerer  ! ' 

At  dinner  I  followed  the  old  dame's  behest 
and  drank  a  bottle  of  Lafitte,  of  the  first 
quality,  so  Ardalion  averred,  though  it  had 
a  very  strong  flavour  of  burnt  cork,  and  a 
thick  sediment  at  the  bottom  of  each  glass. 

Exactly  at  half-past  seven  I  stood  in  front 
of  the  house  where  I  had  conversed  with  the 
worthy  Mastridia  Karpovna.  All  the  shutters 
of  the  windows  were  closed,  but  the  door  was 
open.  I  went  into  the  house,  mounted  the 
shaky  staircase  to  the  first  story,  and  opening  a 
door  on  the  left,  found  myself,  as  the  old  woman 
had  said,  in  a  perfectly  empty,  rather  large 
room  ;  a  tallow  candle  set  in  the  window-sill 
53 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

threw  a  dim  light  over  the  room  ;  against  the 
wall  opposite  the  door  stood  a  wicker-bottomed 
chair.  I  snuffed  the  candle,  which  had  already 
burnt  down  enough  to  form  a  long  smoulder- 
ing wick,  sat  down  on  the  chair  and  began  to 
wait. 

The  first  ten  minutes  passed  rather  quickly ; 
in  the  room  itself  there  was  absolutely  nothing 
which  could  distract  my  attention,  but  I  listened 
intently  to  every  rustle,  looked  intently  at  the 
closed  door.  .  .  .  My  heart  was  throbbing. 
After  the  first  ten  minutes  followed  another 
ten  minutes,  then  half  an  hour,  three-quarters 
of  an  hour,  and  not  a  stir  of  any  kind  around ! 
I  coughed  several  times  to  make  my  presence 
known ;  I  began  to  feel  bored  and  out  of 
temper;  to  be  made  a  fool  of  in  just  that  way 
had  not  entered  into  my  calculations.  I  was 
on  the  point  of  getting  up  from  my  seat, 
taking  the  candle  from  the  window,  and  going 
downstairs.  ...  I  looked  at  it ;  the  wick 
again  wanted  snuffing ;  but  as  I  turned  my 
eyes  from  the  window  to  the  door,  I  could  not 
help  starting  ;  with  his  back  leaning  against  the 
door  stood  a  man.  He  had  entered  so  quickly 
and  noiselessly  that  I  had  heard  nothing. 

He  wore  a  simple  blue  smock  ;  he  was  of 

middle  height  and  rather  thick-set.     With  his 

hands  behind  his  back  and  his  head  bent,  he  was 

staring  at  me.     In  the  dim  light  of  the  candle 

54 


A  STRANGE   STORY 

I  could  not  distinctly  make  out  his  features.  I 
saw  nothing  but  a  shaggy  mane  of  matted  hair 
falling  on  his  forehead,  and  thick,  rather  drawn 
lips  and  whitish  eyes.  I  was  nearly  speaking 
to  him,  but  I  recollected  Mastridia's  injunction, 
and  bit  my  lips.  The  man,  who  had  come  in, 
continued  to  gaze  at  me,  and,  strange  to  say, 
at  the  same  time  I  felt  something  like  fear, 
and,  as  though  at  the  word  of  command, 
promptly  started  thinking  of  my  old  tutor. 
He  still  stood  at  the  door  and  breathed 
heavily,  as  though  he  had  been  climbing  a 
mountain  or  lifting  a  weight,  while  his  eyes 
seemed  to  expand,  seemed  to  come  closer  to 
me — and  I  felt  uncomfortable  under  their 
obstinate,  heavy,  menacing  stare;  at  times 
those  eyes  glowed  with  a  malignant  inward 
fire,  a  fire  such  as  I  have  seen  in  the  eyes  of  a 
pointer  dog  when  it  *  points '  at  a  hare ;  and, 
like  a  pointer  dog,  he  kept  his  eyes  intently 
following  mine  when  I  *  tried  to  double,'  that  is, 
tried  to  turn  my  eyes  away. 

So  passed  I  do  not  know  how  long — perhaps 
a  minute,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  He 
still  gazed  at  me ;  I  still  experienced  a  certain 
discomfort  and  alarm  and  still  thought  of  the 
Frenchman.  Twice  I  tried  to  say  to  myself, 
'What  nonsense!  what  a  farce!'  I  tried  to 
smile,  to  shrug  my  shoulders.  ...  It  was  no 
use  !  All  initiative  had  all  at  once  *  frozen 
55 


A  STRANGE   STORY 

Up '  within  me — I  can  find  no  other  word  for 
it.  I  was  overcome  by  a  sort  of  numbness. 
Suddenly  I  noticed  that  he  had  left  the  door, 
and  was  standing  a  step  or  two  nearer  to  me ; 
then  he  gave  a  slight  bound,  both  feet  together, 
and  stood  closer  still.  .  .  .  Then  again  .  .  .  and 
again;  while  the  menacing  eyes  were  simply 
fastened  on  my  whole  face,  and  the  hands 
remained  behind,  and  the  broad  chest  heaved 
painfully.  These  leaps  struck  me  as  ridicu- 
lous, but  I  felt  dread  too,  and  what  I  could  not 
understand  at  all,  a  drowsiness  began  suddenly 
to  come  upon  me.  My  eyelids  clung  together 
.  .  .  the  shaggy  figure  with  the  whitish  eyes 
in  the  blue  smock  seemed  double  before  me, 
and  suddenly  vanished  altogether !  .  .  .  I  shook 
myself;  he  was  again  standing  between  the 
door  and  me,  but  now  much  nearer.  .  ,  .  Then 
he  vanished  again — a  sort  of  mist  seemed  to 
fall  upon  him  ;  again  he  appeared  .  .  .  vanished 
again  .  .  .  appeared  again,  and  always  closer, 
closer  ...  his  hard,  almost  gasping  breathing 
floated  across  to  me  now.  .  .  ,  Again  the  mist 
fell,  and  all  of  a  sudden  out  of  this  mist  the 
head  of  old  Dessaire  began  to  take  distinct 
shape,  beginning  with  the  white,  brushed-back 
hair !  Yes :  there  were  his  warts,  his  black 
eyebrows,  his  hook  nose  !  There  too  his  green 
coat  with  the  brass  buttons,  the  striped  waist- 
coat and  jabot.  ...  I  shrieked,  I  got  up.  .  .  . 
The  old  man  vanished,  and  in  his  place  I  saw 
56 


A   STRANGE   STORY 

again  the  man  in  the  blue  smock.  He  moved 
staggering  to  the  wall,  leaned  his  head  and 
both  arms  against  it,  and  heaving  like  an  over- 
loaded horse,  in  a  husky  voice  said,  *  Tea ! ' 
Mastridia  Karpovna — how  she  came  there  I 
can't  say — flew  to  him  and  saying :  *  Vassinka  1 
Vassinka!'  began  anxiously  wiping  away  the 
sweat,  which  simply  trickled  from  his  face 
and  hair.  I  was  on  the  point  of  approaching 
her,  but  she,  so  insistently,  in  such  a  heart- 
rending voice  cried  :  *  Your  honour !  merciful 
sir!  have  pity  on  us,  go  away,  for  Christ's 
sake  I '  that  I  obeyed,  while  she  turned  again  to 
her  son.  *  Bread-winner,  darling,*  she  murmured 
soothingly :  'you  shall  have  tea  directly,  directly. 
And  you  too,  sir,  had  better  take  a  cup  of  tea  at 
home  ! '  she  shouted  after  me. 

When  I  got  home  I  obeyed  Mastridia  and 
ordered  some  tea ;  I  felt  tired — even  weak. 
*Well?'  Ardalion  questioned  me,  'have  you 
been  ?  did  you  see  something  ? ' 

'  He  did,  certainly,  show  me  something  .  .  . 
which,  I  '11  own,  I  had  not  anticipated,'  I 
replied. 

'  He 's  a  man  of  marvellous  power,'  observed 
Ardalion,  carrying  off  the  samovar ;  *  he  is  held 
in  high  esteem  among  the  merchant  gentry.' 

As  I  went  to  bed,  and  reflected  on  the 
incident  that  had  occurred  to  me,  I  fancied  at 
last  that  I  had  reached  some  explanation  of  it. 
57 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

The  man  doubtless  possessed  a  considerable 
magnetic  power  ;  acting  by  some  means,  which 
I  did  not  understand  of  course,  upon  my 
nerves,  he  had  evoked  within  me  so  vividly,  so 
definitely,  the  image  of  the  old  man  of  whom  I 
was  thinking,  that  at  last  I  fancied  that  I  saw 
him  before  my  eyes.  .  .  .  Such  'metastases,* 
such  transferences  of  sensation,  are  recog- 
nised by  science.  It  was  all  very  well ;  but 
the  force  capable  of  producing  such  effects 
still  remained,  something  marvellous  and 
mysterious.  *Say  what  you  will,'  I  thought, 
*  I  've  seen,  seen  with  my  own  eyes,  my  dead 
tutor ! ' 

The  next  day  the  ball  in  the  Hall  of  Nobility 
took  place.  Sophia's  father  called  on  me  and 
reminded  me  of  the  engagement  I  had  made 
with  his  daughter.  At  ten  o'clock  I  was  stand- 
ing by  her  side  in  the  middle  of  a  ballroom 
lighted  up  by  a  number  of  copper  lamps, 
and  was  preparing  to  execute  the  not  very 
complicated  steps  of  the  French  quadrille  to 
the  resounding  blare  of  the  military  band. 
Crowds  of  people  were  there  ;  the  ladies  were 
especially  numerous  and  very  pretty  ;  but  the 
first  place  among  them  would  certainly  have 
been  given  to  my  partner,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
the  rather  strange,  even  rather  wild  look  in  her 
eyes.  I  noticed  that  she  hardly  ever  blinked  ; 
the  unmistakable  expression  of  sincerity  in  her 
58 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

eyes  did  not  make  up  for  what  was  extra- 
ordinary in  them.  But  she  had  a  charming 
figure,  and  moved  gracefully,  though  with  con- 
straint. When  she  waltzed,  and,  throwing 
herself  a  little  back,  bent  her  slender  neck 
towards  her  right  shoulder,  as  though  she 
wanted  to  get  away  from  her  partner,  nothing 
more  touchingly  youthful  and  pure  could  be 
imagined.  She  was  all  in  white,  with  a  tur- 
quoise cross  on  a  black  ribbon. 

I  asked  her  for  a  mazurka,  and  tried  to  talk 
to  her.  But  her  answers  were  few  and  reluc- 
tant, though  she  listened  attentively,  with  the 
same  expression  of  dreamy  absorption  which 
had  struck  me  when  I  first  met  her.  Not  the 
slightest  trace  of  desire  to  please,  at  her  age, 
with  her  appearance,  and  the  absence  of  a 
smile,  and  those  eyes,  continually  fixed  directly 
upon  the  eyes  of  the  person  speaking  to  her, 
though  they  seemed  at  the  same  time  to  see 
something  else,  to  be  absorbed  with  some- 
thing different.  .  .  .  What  a  strange  creature  ! 
Not  knowing,  at  last,  how  to  thaw  her,  I  be- 
thought me  of  telling  her  of  my  adventure  of 
the  previous  day. 

She  heard  me  to  the  end  with  evident 
interest,  but  was  not,  as  1  had  expected,  sur- 
prised at  what  I  told  her,  and  merely  asked 
whether  he  was  not  called  Vassily.  I  recol- 
lected that  the  <ild  woman  had  called  him 
S9 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

'Vassinka.'  *Yes,  his  name  is  Vassily,*  I 
answered  ;  *  do  you  know  him  ? ' 

'  There  is  a  saintly  man  living  here  called 
Vassily/  she  observed  ;  *  I  wondered  whether  it 
was  he.* 

*  Saintliness  has  nothing  to  do  with  this/  I 
remarked  ;  *  it 's  simply  the  action  of  magnetism 
— a  fact  of  interest  for  doctors  and  students  of 
science/ 

I  proceeded  to  expound  my  views  on  the 
peculiar  force  called  magnetism,  on  the  possi- 
bility of  one  man's  will  being  brought  under 
the  influence  of  another's  will,  and  so  on  ;  but 
/  my  explanations — which  were,  it  is  true,  some- 
what confused — seemed  to  make  no  impression 
on  her.  Sophie  listened,  dropping  her  clasped 
hands  on  her  knees  with  a  fan  lying  motionless 
in  them ;  she  did  not  play  with  it,  she  did  not 
move  her  fingers  at  all,  and  I  felt  that  all  my 
words  rebounded  from  her  as  from  a  statue 
of  stone.  She  heard  them,  but  clearly  she 
had  her  own  convictions,  which  nothing  could 
shake  or  uproot. 

*  You  can  hardly  admit  miracles ! '  I  cried. 
*Of  course   I   admit   them/  she    answered 

calmly.  'And  how  can  one  help  admitting 
them  ?  Are  not  we  told  in  the  gospel  that 
who  has  but  a  grain  of  faith  as  big  as  a 
mustard  seed,  he  can  remove  mountains? 
One  need  only  have  faith — there  will  be 
miracles ! ' 

60 


A  STRANGE   STORY 

*  It  seems  there  is  very  little  faith  nowadays/ 
I  observed;  'anyway,  one  doesn't  hear  of 
miracles.' 

*  But  yet  there  are  miracles  ;  you  have  seen 
one  yourself.  No ;  faith  is  not  dead  nowa- 
days ;  and  the  beginning  of  faith  .  .  .' 

'The  fear  of  God  is  the  beginning  of 
wisdom,'  I  interrupted. 

*  The  beginning  of  faith,'  pursued  Sophie, 
nothing  daunted,  'is  self-abasement  .  .  . 
humiliation.' 

*  Humiliation  even?'  I  queried. 
*Yes.     The  pride  of  man,  haughtiness,  pre-    . 

sumption — that  is  what  must  be  utterly  rooted  f 
up.  You  spoke  of  the  will — that 's  what  must  ' 
be  broken.' 

I  scanned  the  whole  figure  of  the  young  girl 
who  was  uttering  such  sentences.  ...  *  My 
word,  the  child 's  in  earnest,  too,'  was  my 
thought.  I  glanced  at  our  neighbours  in  the 
mazurka ;  they,  too,  glanced  at  me,  and  I 
fancied  that  my  astonishment  amused  them ; 
one  of  them  even  smiled  at  me  sympatheti- 
cally, as  though  he  would  say  :  '  Well,  what  do 
you  think  of  our  queer  young  lady  ?  every  one 
here  knows  what  she's  like.' 

'  Have  you  tried  to  break  your  will  ? '  I  said, 
turning  to  Sophie  again. 

'Everyone  is  bound  to  do  what  he  thinks 
right,'  she  answered  in  a  dogmatic  tone. 

'Let   me   ask   you,'   I   began,  after  a  brief 
6i 


I 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

silence,  'do  you  believe  in  the  possibility  of 
calling  up  the  dead  ?  * 

Sophie  softly  shook  her  head. 

*  There  are  no  dead.' 
*What?' 

*  There  are  no  dead  souls  ;  they  are  undying 
and  can  always  appear,  when  they  like.  ,  .  . 
They  are  always  about  us/ 

What  ?  Do  you  suppose,  for  instance,  that 
an  immortal  soul  may  be  at  this  moment 
hovering  about  that  garrison  major  with  the 
red  nose  ? ' 

*  Why  not  ?  The  sunlight  falls  on  him 
and  his  nose,  and  is  not  the  sunlight,  all  light, 
from  God  ?  And  what  does  external  appear- 
ance matter?  To  the  pure  all  things  are  pure! 
Only  to  find  a  teacher,  to  find  a  leader ! ' 

*  But  excuse  me,  excuse  me,'  I  put  in,  not,  I 
must  own,  without  malicious  intent.  'You 
want  a  leader  .  .  .  but  what  is  your  priest  for  ?  * 

Sophie  looked  coldly  at  me. 

*  You  mean  to  laugh  at  me,  I  suppose.  My 
priestly  father  tells  me  what  I  ought  to  do  ; 
but  what  I  want  is  a  leader  who  would  show 
me  himself  in  action  how  to  sacrifice  one's  self! ' 

She  raised  her  eyes  towards  the  ceiling. 
With  her  childlike  face,  and  that  expression 
of  immobile  absorption,  of  secret,  continual 
perplexity,  she  reminded  me  of  the  pre- 
raphaelite  Madonnas.  .  .  . 

*  I  have  read  somewhere,'  she  went  on,  not 

62 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

turning  to  me,  and  hardly  moving  her  lips,  *  of 
a  grand  person  who  directed  that  he  should  be  ] 
buried  under  a  church  porch  so  that  all  the  ^ 
people  who  came  in  should  tread  him  under  i 
foot  and  trample  on  him.  .  .  -  That  is  what  j 
one  ought  to  do  in  life.'  I 

Boom !  boom !  tra-ra-ra !  thundered  the 
drums  from  the  band.  ...  I  must  own  such  a 
conversation  at  a  ball  struck  me  as  eccentric 
in  the  extreme  ;  the  ideas  involuntarily  kindled 
within  me  were  of  a  nature  anything  but 
religious.  I  took  advantage  of  my  partner's 
being  invited  to  one  of  the  figures  of  the 
mazurka  to  avoid  renewing  our  quasi-theo- 
logical discussion. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  I  conducted 
Mademoiselle  Sophie  to  her  father,  and  two 

days  after  I  left  the  town  of  T ,  and  the 

image  of  the  girl  with  the  childlike  face  and 
the  soul  impenetrable  as  stone  slipped  quickly 
out  of  my  memory. 

Two  years  passed,  and  it  chanced  that  that 
image  was  recalled  again  to  me.  It  was  like 
this :  I  was  talking  to  a  colleague  who  had 
just  returned   from  a  tour   in    South   Russia. 

He  had  spent  some  time  in  the  town  of  T , 

and  told  me  various  items  of  news  about  the 
neighbourhood.  *  By  the  way  !  *  he  exclaimed, 
*  you  knew  V.  G.  B.  very  well,  I  fancy,  didn't 
you?' 

6.^ 


A   STRANGE   STORY 

*  Of  course  I  know  him.* 

*  And  his  daughter  Sophia,  do  you  know 
her?' 

*  I  've  seen  her  twice/ 

'  Only  fancy,  she  *s  run  away  ! ' 

*  How  's  that  ?  * 

'Well,  I  don't  know.  Three  months  ago 
she  disappeared,  and  nothing  's  been  heard  of 
her.  And  the  astonishing  thing  is  no  one  can 
make  out  whom  she 's  run  off  with.  Fancy, 
they've  not  the  slightest  idea,  not  the  smallest 
suspicion  !  She  'd  refused  all  the  offers  made 
her,  and  she  was  most  proper  in  her  behaviour. 
Ah,  these  quiet,  religious  girls  are  the  ones !  It's 
made  an  awful  scandal  all  over  the  province ! 
B.  's  in  despair.  .  .  .  And  whatever  need  had 
she  to  run  away  ?  Her  father  carried  out  her 
wishes  in  everything.  And  what's  so  un- 
accountable, all  the  Lovelaces  of  the  province 
are  there  all  right,  not  one's  missing.' 

*  And  they  've  not  found  her  up  till  now  ?  ' 

*  I  tell  you  she  might  as  well  be  at  the 
bottom  of  the  sea !  It 's  one  rich  heiress  less 
in  the  world,  that 's  the  worst  of  it.' 

This  piece  of  news  greatly  astonished  me. 
It  did  not  seem  at  all  in  keeping  with  the 
recollection  I  had  of  Sophia  B.  But  there ! 
anything  may  happen. 

In  the  autumn  of  the  same  year  fate  brought 
me — again  on  official  business — into  the  S— — 
64 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

province,  which  is,  as  every  one  knows,  next  to 

the  province  of  T .     It  was  cold  and  rainy 

weather;  the  worn-out  posting-horses  could 
scarcely  drag  my  light  trap  through  the  black 
slush  of  the  highroad.  One  day,  I  remember, 
was  particularly  unlucky :  three  times  we  got 
*  stuck  *  in  the  mud  up  to  the  axles  of  the 
wheels  ;  my  driver  was  continually  giving  up 
one  rut  and  with  moans  and  grunts  trudging 
across  to  the  other,  and  finding  things  no 
better  with  that.  In  fact,  towards  evening  I 
was  so  exhausted  that  on  reaching  the  posting- 
station  I  decided  to  spend  the  night  at  the  inn. 
I  was  given  a  room  with  a  broken-down 
wooden  sofa,  a  sloping  floor,  and  torn  paper 
on  the  walls ;  there  was  a  smell  in  it  of  kvas, 
bast-mats,  onions,  and  even  turpentine,  and 
swarms  of  flies  were  on  everything  ;  but  at  any 
rate  I  could  find  shelter  there  from  the  weather, 
and  the  rain  had  set  in,  as  they  say,  for  the 
whole  day.  I  ordered  a  samovar  to  be  brought, 
and,  sitting  on  the  sofa,  settled  down  to  those 
cheerless  wayside  reflections  so  familiar  to 
travellers  in  Russia. 

They  were  broken  in  upon  by  a  heavy 
knocking  that  came  from  the  common  room, 
from  which  my  room  was  separated  by  a  deal 
partition.  This  sound  was  accompanied  by 
an  intermittent  metallic  jingle,  like  the  clank 
of  chains,  and  a  coarse  male  voice  boomed  out 
suddenly  :  '  The  blessing  of  God  on  all  within 
E  65 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

this  house.  The  blessing  of  God  !  the  blessing 
of  God  !  Amen,  amen  !  Scatter  His  enemies  ! ' 
repeated  the  voice,  with  a  sort  of  incongruous 
and  savage  drawl  on  the  last  syllable  of  each 
word.  ...  A  noisy  sigh  was  heard,  and  a 
ponderous  body  sank  on  to  the  bench  with 
the  same  jingling  sound.  *  Akulina !  servant 
of  God,  come  here ! '  the  voice  began  again  : 
*  Behold !  Clothed  in  rags  and  blessed !  .  .  . 
Ha-ha-ha !  Tfoo  !  Merciful  God,  merciful 
God,  merciful  God!'  the  voice  droned  like  a 
deacon  in  the  choir.  *  Merciful  God,  Creator 
of  my  body,  behold  my  iniquity.  .  .  .  0-ho-ho ! 
Ha-ha  !  .  .  .  Tfoo  !  And  all  abundance  be  to 
this  house  in  the  seventh  hour !  * 

*  Who's  that?'  I  asked  the  hospitable  land' 
lady,  who  came  in  with  the  samovar. 

*  That,  your  honour,'  she  answered  me  in  a 
hurried  whisper,  'is  a  blessed,  holy  man.  He's 
not  long  come  into  our  parts ;  and  here  he 's 
graciously  pleased  to  visit  us.  In  such 
weather !  The  wet 's  simply  trickling  from 
him,  poor  dear  man,  in  streams !  And  you 
should  see  the  chains  on  him — such  a  lot ! ' 

*  The  blessing  of  God  !  the  blessing  of  God  ! ' 
the  voice  was  heard  again.  *  Akulina !  Hey, 
Akulina !  Akulinushka — friend  !  where  is  our 
paradise?  Our  fair  paradise  of  bliss?  In 
the  wilderness  is  our  paradise,  .  .  .  para-dise. 
.  .  .  And  to  this  house,  from  beginning  of  time, 
great  happiness,  .  .  .  o  .  .  .  o  .  .  .  o  .  .  .'    The 

66 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

voice  muttered  something  inarticulate,  and 
again,  after  a  protracted  yawn,  there  came  the 
hoarse  laugh.  This  laugh  broke  out  every 
time,  as  it  were,  involuntarily,  and  every  time  it 
was  followed  by  vigorous  spitting. 

*  Ah,  me  !  Stepanitch  isn't  here  !  That's  the 
worst  of  it!'  the  landlady  said,  as  it  were 
to  herself,  as  she  stood  with  every  sign  of  the 
profoundest  attention  at  the  door.  *  He  will 
say  some  word  of  salvation,  and  I,  foolish 
woman,  may  not  catch  it ! ' 

She  went  out  quickly. 

In  the  partition  there  was  a  chink  ;  I  applied 
my  eye  to  it.  The  crazy  pilgrim  was  sitting 
on  a  bench  with  his  back  to  me  ;  I  saw  nothing 
but  his  shaggy  head,  as  huge  as  a  beer-can, 
and  a  broad  bent  back  in  a  patched  and  soak- 
ing shirt.  Before  him,  on  the  earth  floor,  knelt 
a  frail-looking  woman  in  a  jacket,  such  as  are 
worn  by  women  of  the  artisan  class— old  and  wet 
through — and  with  a  dark  kerchief  pulled  down 
almost  over  her  eyes.  She  was  trying  to  pull 
the  holy  man's  boots  off;  her  fingers  slid  off  the 
greasy,  slippery  leather.  The  landlady  was 
standing  near  her,  with  her  arms  folded  across 
her  bosom,  gazing  reverently  at  the  '  man  of 
God.'  He  was,  as  before,  mumbling  some  in- 
articulate words. 

At  last  the  woman  succeeded  in  tugging  off 
the   boots.      She   almost   fell   backwards,  but 

67 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

recovered  herself,  and  began  unwinding  the 
strips  of  rag  which  were  wrapped  round  the 
vagrant's  legs.  On  the  sole  of  his  foot  there 
was  a  wound.  ...  I  turned  away. 

*  A  cup  of  tea  wouldn't  you  bid  me  get  you, 
my  dear?'  I  heard  the  hostess  saying  in  an 
obsequious  voice. 

*  What  a  notion  ! '  responded  the  holy  man. 
*  To  indulge  the  sinful  body.  .  .  .  0-ho-ho ! 
Break  all  the  bones  in  it  .  .  .  but  she  talks 
of  tea !  Oh,  oh,  worthy  old  woman,  Satan  is 
strong  within  us.  .  .  .  Fight  him  with  hunger, 
fight  him  with  cold,  with  the  sluice-gates  of 
heaven,  the  pouring,  penetrating  rain,  and  he 
takes  no  harm — he  is  alive  still !  Remember 
the  day  of  the  Intercession  of  the  Mother  of 
God!  You  will  receive,  you  will  receive  in 
abundance ! ' 

The  landlady  could  not  resist  uttering  a  faint 
groan  of  admiration. 

*  Only  listen  to  me !  Give  all  thou  hast,  give 
thy  head,  give  thy  shirt !  If  they  ask  not  of 
thee,  yet  give  !  For  God  is  all-seeing !  Is  it 
hard  for  Him  to  destroy  your  roof?  He  has 
given  thee  bread  in  His  mercy,  and  do  thou 
bake  it  in  the  oven !  He  seeth  all !  Se  .  .  .  e 
.  .  .  eth !  Whose  eye  is  in  the  triangle  ?  Say, 
whose  ? ' 

The  landlady  stealthily  crossed  herself  under 
her  neckerchief 
*The  old   enemy   is   adamant!     A  ...  da 
63 


A  STRANGE  STORV 

.  .  .  mant !  A  .  .  .  da  .  .  .  mant ! '  the  religi- 
ous maniac  repeated  several  times,  gnashing 
his  teeth.  'The  old  serpent!  But  God  will 
arise !  Yes,  God  will  arise  and  scatter  His 
enemies !  I  will  call  up  all  the  dead !  I  will 
go  against  His  enemy.  .  .  .  Ha-ha-ha !    Tfoo ! ' 

*  Have  you  any  oil  ? '  said  another  voice, 
hardly  audible ;  *  let  me  put  some  on  the 
wound.  ...  I  have  got  a  clean  rag.' 

I  peeped  through  the  chink  again ;  the  woman 
in  the  jacket  was  still  busied  with  the  vagrant's 
sore  foot.  ...  *  A  Magdalen  ! '  I  thought. 

*  I  '11  get  it  directly,  my  dear,'  said  the  woman, 
and,  coming  into  my  room,  she  took  a  spoonful 
of  oil  from  the  lamp  burning  before  the  holy 
picture. 

*  Who 's  that  waiting  on  him  ? '  I  asked. 

*  We  don't  know,  sir,  who  it  is ;  she  too,  I 
suppose,  is  seeking  salvation,  atoning  for  her 
sins.     But  what  a  saintly  man  he  is  ! ' 

*  Akulinushka,  my  sweet  child,  my  dear 
daughter,'  the  crazy  pilgrim  was  repeating 
meanwhile,  and  he  suddenly  burst  into  tears. 

The  woman  kneeling  before  him  lifted  her 
eyes  to  him.  .  .  .  Heavens  !  where  had  I  seen 
those  eyes  ? 

The  landlady  went  up  to  her  with  the  spoon- 
ful of  oil.  She  finished  her  operation,  and, 
getting  up  from  the  floor,  asked  if  there  were 
a  clean  loft  and  a  little  hay.  ...  *  Vassily  Niki* 
titch  likes  to  sleep  on  hay,'  she  added. 
69 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

*  To  be  sure  there  is,  come  this  way,'  answered 
the  woman  ;  *  come  this  way,  my  dear,'  she 
turned  to  the  holy  man,  *  and  dry  yourself  and 
rest.'  The  man  coughed,  slowly  got  up  from 
the  bench — his  chains  clanked  again — and  turn- 
ing round  with  his  face  to  me,  looked  for  the 
holy  pictures,  and  began  crossing  himself  with 
a  wide  movement. 

I  recognised  him  instantly :  it  was  the  very 
artisan  Vassily,  who  had  once  shown  me  my 
dead  tutor ! 

His  features  were  little  changed ;  only  their 
expression  had  become  still  more  unusual,  still 
more  terrible. .  .  .  The  lower  part  of  his  swollen 
face  was  overgrown  with  unkempt  beard.  Tat- 
tered, filthy,  wild-looking,  he  inspired  in  me  more 
repugnance  than  horror.  He  left  off  crossing 
himself,  but  still  his  eyes  wandered  senselessly 
about  the  corners  of  the  room,  about  the  floor, 
as  though  he  were  waiting  for  something.  .  .  . 

*  Vassily  Nikititch,  please  come,'  said  the 
woman  in  the  jacket  with  a  bow.  He  suddenly 
threw  up  his  head  and  turned  round,  but  stum- 
bled and  tottered.  .  .  .  His  companion  flew  to 
him  at  once,  and  supported  him  under  the  arm. 
Judging  by  her  voice  and  figure,  she  seemed 
still  young  ;  her  face  it  was  almost  impossible 
to  see. 

*  Akulinushka,  friend  ! '  the  vagrant  repeated 
once  more  in  a  shaking  voice,  and  opening  his 
mouth  wide,  and  smiting  himself  on  the  breast 

70 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

with  his  fist,  he  uttered  a  deep  groan,  that 
seemed  to  come  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 
Both  followed  the  landlady  out  of  the  room. 

I  lay  down  on  my  hard  sofa  and  mused  a 
long  while  on  what  I  had  seen.  My  mesmeriser 
had  become  a  regular  religious  maniac.  This 
was  what  he  had  been  brought  to  by  the  power 
which  one  could  not  but  recognise  in  him ! 

The  next  morning  I  was  preparing  to  go  on 
my  way.  The  rain  was  falling  as  fast  as  the 
day  before,  but  I  could  not  delay  any  longer. 
My  servant,  as  he  gave  me  water  to  wash,  wore  \ 
a  special  smile  on  his  face,  a  smile  of  restrained 
irony.  I  knew  that  smile  well ;  it  indicated 
that  my  servant  had  heard  something  dis- 
creditable or  even  shocking  about  gentlefolks. 
He  was  obviously  burning  with  impatience  to 
communicate  it  to  me. 

*  Well,  what  is  it?'  I  asked  at  last. 

*  Did  your  honour  see  the  crazy  pilgrim 
yesterday  ? '  my  man  began  at  once. 

*  Yes  ;  what  then  ? ' 

*  And  did  you  see  his  companion  too  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  saw  her.' 

'  She 's  a  young  lady,  of  noble  family.' 
'What?' 

*  It's  the  truth  I  'm  telling  you ;  some  mer- 
chants arrived  here  this  morning  from  T ; 

they  recognised  her.     They  did   tell   me   her 
name,  but  I  've  forgotten  it.' 

71 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

It  was  like  a  flash  of  enlightenment  '  Is 
the  pilgrim  still  here  ? '  I  asked. 

*  I  fancy  he 's  not  gone  yet.  He 's  been  ever 
so  long  at  the  gate,  and  making  such  a  wonder- 
ful wise  to-do,  that  there 's  no  getting  by. 
He 's  amusing  himself  with  this  tomfoolery  ;  he 
finds  it  pay,  no  doubt/ 

My  man  belonged  to  the  same  class  of 
educated  servants  as  Ardalion. 

*  And  is  the  lady  with  him  ? ' 

*  Yes.     She's  in  attendance  on  him.* 

I  went  out  on  to  the  steps,  and  got  a  view  of 
the  crazy  pilgrim.  He  was  sitting  on  a  bench 
at  the  gate,  and,  bent  down  with  both  his  open 
hands  pressed  on  it,  he  was  shaking  his  droop- 
ing head  from  right  to  left,  for  all  the  world 
like  a  wild  beast  in  a  cage.  The  thick  mane 
of  curly  hair  covered  his  eyes,  and  shook  from 
side  to  side,  and  so  did  his  pendulous  lips.  .  ,  . 
A  strange,  almost  unhuman  muttering  came 
from  them.  His  companion  had  only  just 
finished  washing  from  a  pitcher  that  was  hang- 
ing on  a  pole,  and  without  having  yet  replaced 
her  kerchief  on  her  head,  was  making  her  way 
back  to  the  gate  along  a  narrow  plank  laid 
across  the  dark  puddles  of  the  filthy  yard.  I 
glanced  at  her  head,  which  was  now  entirely 
uncovered,  and  positively  threw  up  my  hands 
with  astonishment :  before  me  stood  Sophie  B. ! 

She  turned  quickly  round  and  fixed  upon 

12. 


A  StRANGE  StORY 

me  her  blue  eyes,  immovable  as  ever.  She  was 
much  thinner,  her  skin  looked  coarser  and  had 
the  yellowish-ruddy  tinge  of  sunburn,  her  nose 
was  sharper,  and  her  lips  were  harder  in  their 
lines.  But  she  was  not  less  good-looking; 
only  besides  her  old  expression  of  dreamy 
amazement  there  was  now  a  different  look — 
resolute,  almost  bold,  intense  and  exalted. 
There  was  not  a  trace  of  childishness  left  in 
the  face  now. 

I  went  up  to  her.  *  Sophia  Vladimirovna,'  I 
cried,  'can  it  be  you?  In  such  a  dress  ...  in 
such  company.  .  .  .' 

She  started,  looked  still  more  intently  at  me, 
as  though  anxious  to  find  out  who  was  speaking 
to  her,  and,  without  saying  a  word  to  me,  fairly 
rushed  to  her  companion. 

'  Akulinushka,'  he  faltered,  with  a  heavy 
sigh,  '  our  sins,  sins  .  .  .' 

*  Vassily  Nikititch,  let  us  go  at  once !  Do 
you  hear,  at  once,  at  once,'  she  said,  pulling  her 
kerchief  on  to  her  forehead  with  one  hand, 
while  with  the  other  she  supported  the  pilgrim 
under  the  elbow ;  '  let  us  go,  Vassily  Nikititch  : 
there  is  danger  here.' 

*  I  'm  coming,  my  good  girl,  I  'm  coming,* 
the  crazy  pilgrim  responded  obediently,  and, 
bending  his  whole  body  forward,  he  got  up 
from  the  seat.  *  Here 's  only  this  chain  to 
fasten.  .  .  .' 

I  once  more  approached  Sophia,  and  told 
73 


A  STRANGE  STORY 

her  my  name.  I  began  beseeching  her  to  listen 
to  me,  to  say  one  word  to  me.  I  pointed  to 
the  rain,  which  was  coming  down  in  bucketsful. 

\I  begged  her  to  have  some  care  for  her  health. 

Ithe  health  of  her  companion.     I  mentioned  her 

(father.  .  .  .  But  she  seemed  possessed  by  a  sort 
of  wrathful,  a  sort  of  vindictive  excitement: 
without  paying  the  slightest  attention  to  me, 
setting  her  teeth  and  breathing  hard,  she  urged 
on  the  distracted  vagrant  in  an  undertone,  in 
soft  insistent  words,  girt  him  up,  fastened  on 

I  his  chains,  pulled  on  to  his  hair  a  child's  cloth 
cap  with  a  broken  peak,  stuck  his  staff  in  his 
hand,  slung  a  wallet  on  her  own  shoulder,  and 
went  with  him  out  at  the  gate  into  the  street. 
...  To  stop  her  actually  I  had  not  the  right, 
and  it  would  have  been  of  no  use  ;  and  at  my 
last  despairing  call  she  did  not  even  turn  round, 
Supporting  the  *  man  of  God '  under  his  arm, 
she  stepped  rapidly  over  the  black  mud  of  the 
street ;  and  in  a  few  moments,  across  the  dim 
dusk  of  the  foggy  morning,  through  the  thick 
network  of  falling  raindrops,  I  saw  the  last 
glimpse  of  the  two  figures,  the  crazy  pilgrim 
and  Sophie.  .  .  .  They  turned  the  corner  of  a 
projecting  hut,  and  vanished  for  ever. 

I  went  back  to  my  room.     I  fell  to  ponder- 
ing.    I  could  not  understand  it ;  I   could  not 
understand  how  such  a  girl,  well  brought  up, 
young,  and  wealthy,  could  throw  up  everything 
74 


A   STRANGE   SIOKY 

and  every  one,  her  own  home,  her  family,  her 
friends,  break  with  all  her  habits,  with  all  the 
comforts  of  life,  and  for  what?  To  follow  a 
half-insane  vagrant,  to  become  his  servant !  I 
could  not  for  an  instant  entertain  the  idea  that 
the  explanation  of  such  a  step  was  to  be  found 
in  any  prompting,  however  depraved,  of  the 
heart,  in  love  or  passion.  .  .  .  One  had  but  to 
glance  at  the  repulsive  figure  of  the  '  man  of 
God '  to  dismiss  such  a  notion  entirely  !  No, 
Sophie  had  remained  pure ;  and  to  her  all 
things  were  pure.  I  could  not  understand  what 
Sophie  had  done ;  but  I  did  not  blame  her,  as, 
later  on,  I  have  not  blamed  other  girls  who 
too  have  sacrificed  everything  for  what  they 
thought  the  truth,  for  what  they  held  to  be 
their  vocation.  I  could  not  help  regretting 
that  Sophie  had  chosen  just  that  path ;  but 
also  I  could  not  refuse  her  admiration,  respect 
even.  In  good  earnest  she  had  talked  of  self- 
sacrifice,  of  abasement  ...  in  her,  words  were 
not  opposed  to  acts.  She  had  sought  a  leader, 
a  guide,  and  had  found  him,  .  .  .  and,  my  God, 
what  a  guide ! 

Yes,  she  had  lain  down  to  be  trampled, 
trodden  under  foot.  ...  In  the  process  of 
time,  a  rumour  reached  me  that  her  family  had 
succeeded  at  last  in  finding  out  the  lost  sheep, 
and  bringing  her  home.  But  at  home  she  did 
not  live  long,  and  died,  like  a  *  Sister  of  Silence,'  | 
without  having  spoken  a  word  to  any  one.' 
75 


A  STRANG^  STORV 

Peace  to  your  heart,  poor,  enigmatic  creature! 
Vassily  Nikititch  is  probably  on  his  crazy  wan- 
derings still ;  the  iron  health  of  such  people  is 
truly  marvellous.  Perhaps,  though,  his  epilepsy 
may  have  done  for  him. 

Badbn -Baden,  1869. 


7« 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

PIOTR  PETROVITCh's  STORY 

.  .  .  I  AM  old  and  ill  now, and  my  thoughts  brood 
oftenest  upon  death,  every  day  coming  nearer ; 
rarely  I  think  of  the  past,  rarely  I  turn  the 
eyes  of  my  soul  behind  me.  Only  from  time 
to  time — in  winter,  as  I  sit  motionless  before 
the  glowing  fire,  in  summer,  as  I  pace  with 
slow  tread  along  the  shady  avenue — I  recall  past 
years,  events,  faces ;  but  it  is  not  on  my  mature 
years  nor  on  my  youth  that  my  thoughts  rest 
at  such  times.  They  either  carry  me  back 
to  my  earliest  childhood,  or  to  the  first  years 
of  boyhood.  Now,  for  instance,  I  see  myself  in 
the  country  with  my  stern  and  wrathful  grand- 
mother— I  was  only  twelve — and  two  figures 
rise  up  before  my  imagination.  ,  .  , 

But  I  will  begin  my  story  consecutively,  and 
in  proper  order. 


1830 

The  old  footman  Filippitch  came  in,  on  tip- 
toe, as  usual,  with  a  cravat  tied  up  in  a  rosette, 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

With  tightly  compressed  h'ps,  'lest  his  breath 
should  be  smelt,'  with  a  grey  tuft  of  hair 
standing  up  in  the  very  middle  of  his  forehead. 
He  came  in,  bowed,  and  handed  my  grand- 
mother on  an  iron  tray  a  large  letter  with  an 
heraldic  seal.  My  grandmother  put  on  her 
spectacles,  read  the  letter  through.  .  .  , 

*  Is  he  here  ?  *  she  asked. 

'What  is  my  lady  pleased  .  .  /  Filippitch 
began  timidly. 

'  Imbecile  !  The  man  who  brought  the  letter 
— is  he  here  ? ' 

*  He  is  here,  to  be  sure  he  is.  ,  .  .  He  is 
sitting  in  the  counting-house.' 

My  grandmother  rattled  her  amber  rosary 
beads.  .  .  . 

'  Tell  him  to  come  to  me.  .  ,  .  And  you,  sir,' 
she  turned  to  me,  *  sit  still.' 

As  it  was,  I  was  sitting  perfectly  still  in  my 
comer,  on  the  stool  assigned  to  me. 

My  grandmother  kept  me  well  in  hand ! 

Five  minutes  later  there  came  into  the  room 
a  man  of  five-and-thirty,  black-haired  and 
swarthy,  with  broad  cheek-bones,  a  face  marked 
with  smallpox,  a  hook  nose,  and  thick  eye- 
brows, from  under  which  the  small  grey  eyes 
looked  out  with  mournful  composure.  The 
colour  of  the  eyes  and  their  expression  were 
out  of  keeping  with  the  Oriental  cast  of  the 
rest  of  th$  face.     The  man  was  dressed  in  a 

78 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

decent,  long-skirted  coat.  He  stopped  in  the 
doorway,  and  bowed — only  with  his  head. 

'So  your  name's  Baburin?'  queried  my 
grandmother,  and  she  added  to  herself:  *//  a 
lair  (Tun  armMen.' 

'  Yes,  it  is,'  the  man  answered  in  a  deep  and 
even  voice.  At  the  first  brusque  sound  of 
my  grandmother's  voice  his  eyebrows  faintly 
quivered.  Surely  he  had  not  expected  her  to 
address  him  as  an  equal  ? 

*  Are  you  a  Russian  ?  orthodox  ? ' 
« Yes.' 

My  grandmother  took  off  her  spectacles,  and 
scanned  Baburin  from  head  to  foot  deliber- 
ately. He  did  not  drop  his  eyes,  he  merely 
folded  his  hands  behind  his  back.  What 
particularly  struck  my  fancy  was  his  beard  ;  it 
was  very  smoothly  shaven,  but  such  blue  cheeks 
and  chin  I  had  never  seen  in  my  life  ! 

*  Yakov  Petrovitch,'  began  my  grandmother, 

*  recommends  you  strongly  in  his  letter  as 
sober  and  industrious ;  why,  then,  did  you 
leave  his  service  ?  ' 

*  He  needs  a  different  sort  of  person  to 
manage  his  estate,  madam.' 

*  A  different  .  .  .  sort  ?  That  I  don't  quite 
understand.' 

My   grandmother  rattled   her   beads  again. 

*  Yakov  Petrovitch  writes  to  me  that  there 
are  two  peculiarities  about  you.  What  peculi- 
arities ? ' 

79 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

Baburin  shrugged  his  shoulders  sh'ghtly. 

*  I  can't  tell  what  he  sees  fit  to  call  peculiari 
ties.     Possibly  that  I  .  .  .  don't  allow  corporal 
punishment' 

My  grandmother  was  surprised.  *  Do  you 
mean  to  say  Yakov  Petrovitch  wanted  to  flog 
you? ' 

Baburin's  swarthy  face  grew  red  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair. 

*  You  have  not  understood  me  right,  madam. 
I  make  it  a  rule  not  to  employ  corporal  punish- 
ment .  .  .  with  the  peasants.' 

My  grandmother  was  more  surprised  than 
ever ;  she  positively  threw  up  her  hands. 

*  Ah ! '  she  pronounced  at  last,  and  putting 
her  head  a  little  on  one  side,  once  more  she 
scrutinised  Baburin  attentively.  *So  that's 
your  rule,  is  it  ?  Well,  that 's  of  no  consequence 
whatever  to  me  ;  I  don't  want  an  overseer,  but 
a  counting-house  clerk,  a  secretary.  What  sort 
of  a  hand  do  you  write  ? ' 

*  I  write  well,  without  mistakes  in  spelling.' 
'That  too  is  of  no  consequence  to  me.     The 

great  thing  for  me  is  for  it  to  be  clear,  and 
without  any  of  those  new  copybook  letters 
with  tails,  that  I  don't  like.  And  what 's  your 
other  peculiarity  ? ' 

Baburin  moved  uneasily,  coughed.  .  .  . 

*  Perhaps  .  .  .  the  gentleman  has  referred  to 
the  fact  that  I  am  not  alone.' 

*  You  are  married  ? ' 

80 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

*  Oh  no  .  .  .  but  .  .  .' 

My  grandmother  knit  her  brows. 

'There  is  a  person  living  with  me  ...  of 
the  male  sex  ...  a  comrade,  a  poor  friend, 
from  whom  I  have  never  parted  .  .  .  for  .  .  . 
let  me  see  .  .  .  ten  years  now.' 

*  A  relation  of  yours  ? ' 

*  No,  not  a  relation — a  friend.  As  to  work, 
there  can  be  no  possible  hindrance  occasioned 
by  him,'  Baburin  made  haste  to  add,  as  though 
foreseeing  objections.  '  He  lives  at  my  cost, 
occupies  the  same  room  with  me ;  he  is  more 
likely  to  be  of  use,  as  he  is  well  educated — 
speaking  without  flattery,  extremely  so,  in  fact 
— and  his  morals  are  exemplary.' 

My  grandmother  heard  Baburin  out,  chewing 
her  lips  and  half  closing  her  eyes. 

*  He  lives  at  your  expense? ' 

*  Yes.' 

*  You  keep  him  out  of  charity  ? ' 

'As  an  act  of  justice  ...  as  it's  the  duty  of 
one  poor  man  to  help  another  poor  man.' 

'  Indeed  !  It 's  the  first  time  I  've  heard 
that.  I  had  supposed  till  now  that  that  was 
rather  the  duty  of  rich  people.' 

'  For  the  rich,  if  I  may  venture  to  say  so, 
it  is  an  entertainment  .  .  but  for  such  as 
we  .  .  .' 

'  Well,  well,  that 's  enough,  that 's  enough,' 
my  grandmother  cut  him  short ;  and  after 
a  moment's  thought  she  queried,  speaking 
r  8i 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

through   her   nose,  which   was  always   a   bad 
sign,  *  And  what  age  is  he,  your  protege  ? ' 

*  About  my  own  age.' 

*  Really,  I  imagined  that  you  were  bringing 
him  up.' 

*  Not  so;  he  is  my  comrade — and  besides  .  .  / 

*  That 's  enough,'  my  grandmother  cut  him 
short  a  second  time.  '  You  're  a  philanthropist, 
it  seems.  Yakov  Petrovitch  is  right ;  for  a  man 
in  your  position  it's  something  very  peculiar. 
But  now  let 's  get  to  business.  I  '11  explain  to 
you  what  your  duties  will  be.  And  as  regards 
wages.  .  .  .  Que  faites  vous  icif  added  my 
grandmother  suddenly,  turning  her  dry,  yellow 
face  to  me  : — *  Allez  Hudier  voire  devoir  de 
mythologies 

I  jumped  up,  went  up  to  kiss  my  grand- 
mother's hand,  and  went  out, — not  to  study 
mythology,  but  simply  into  the  garden. 

The  garden  on  my  grandmother's  estate  was 
very  old  and  large,  and  was  bounded  on  one  side 
by  a  flowing  pond,  in  which  there  were  not  only 
plenty  of  carp  and  eels,  but  even  loach  were 
caught,  those  renowned  loach,  that  have  now- 
adays disappeared  almost  everywhere.  At  the 
head  of  this  pond  was  a  thick  clump  of  willows  ; 
further  and  higher,  on  both  sides  of  a  rising 
slope,  were  dense  bushes  of  hazel,  elder,  honey- 
suckle, and  sloe-thorn,  with  an  undergrowth 
of  heather  and  clover  flowers.  Here  and  there 
82 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

between  the  bushes  were  tiny  clearings,  covered 
with  emerald-green,  silky,  fine  grass,  in  the  midst 
of  which  squat  funguses  peeped  out  with 
their  comical,  variegated  pink,  lilac,  and  straw- 
coloured  caps,  and  golden  balls  of  '  hen-dazzle ' 
blazed  in  light  patches.  Here  in  spring-time  the 
nightingales  sang,  the  blackbirds  whistled,  the 
cuckoos  called ;  here  in  the  heat  of  summer  it 
was  always  cool — and  I  loved  to  make  my  way 
into  the  wilderness  and  thicket,  where  I  had 
favourite  secret  spots,  known — so,  at  least,  I 
imagined — only  to  me. 

On  coming  out  of  my  grandmother's  room 
I  made  straight  for  one  of  these  spots,  which 
I  had  named  'Switzerland.'  But  what  was 
my  astonishment  when,  before  I  had  reached 
'  Switzerland,'  I  perceived  through  the  delicate 
network  of  half-dry  twigs  and  green  branches 
that  some  one  besides  me  had  found  it  out !  A 
long,  long  figure  in  a  long,  loose  coat  of  yellow 
frieze  and  a  tall  cap  was  standing  in  the  very 
spot  I  loved  best  of  all !  I  stole  up  a  little  nearer, 
and  made  out  the  face,  which  was  utterly  un- 
known to  me,  also  very  long  and  soft,  with  small 
reddish  eyes,  and  a  very  funny  nose ;  drawn 
out  as  long  as  a  pod  of  peas,  it  positively  over- 
hung the  full  lips  ;  and  these  lips,  quivering 
and  forming  a  round  O,  were  giving  vent  to  a 
shrill  little  whistle,  while  the  long  fingers  of 
the  bony  hands,  placed  facing  one  another  on 
the  upper  part  of  the  chest,  were  rapidly 
83 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

moving  with  a  rotatory  action.  From  time  to 
time  the  motion  of  the  hands  subsided,  the  lips 
ceased  whistling  and  quivering,  the  head  was 
bent  forward  as  though  listening.  I  came  still 
nearer,  examined  him  still  more  closely.  .  .  . 
The  stranger  held  in  each  hand  a  small  flat 
cup,  such  as  people  use  to  tease  canaries  and 
make  them  sing.  A  twig  snapped  under  my 
feet ;  the  stranger  started,  turned  his  dim  little 
eyes  towards  the  copse,  and  was  staggering 
away  .  .  .  but  he  stumbled  against  a  tree, 
uttered  an  exclamation,  and  stood  still. 

I  came  out  into  the  open  space.  The  stranger 
smiled. 

*  Good  morning,'  said  I. 

'  Good  morning,  little  master  1 ' 
I  did  not  like  his  calling  me  little  master. 
Such  familiarity ! 

*  What  are  you  doing  here  ? '  I  asked  sternly. 

*  Why,  look  here,'  he  responded,  never  leaving 
off  smiling,  *  I  'm  calling  the  little  birds  to  sing.' 
He  showed  me  his  little  cups.  *  The  chaffinches 
answer  splendidly  !  You,  at  your  tender  years, 
take  delight,  no  doubt,  in  the  feathered  song- 
sters' notes !  Listen,  I  beg ;  I  will  begin 
chirping,  and  they'll  answer  me  directly — it's 
so  delightful ! ' 

He  began  rubbing  his  little  cups.    A  chaffinch 
actually  did  chirp  in  response  from  a  mountain 
ash   near.      The   stranger  laughed  without   a 
sound,  and  winked  at  me. 
84 


PUNTN   AND   BABURIN 

The  laugh  and  the  wink — every  gesture  of 
the  stranger,  his  weak,  h'sping  voice,  his  bent 
knees  and  thin  hands,  his  very  cap  and  long 
frieze  coat — everything  about  him  suggested 
good-nature,  something  innocent  and  droll. 

'  Have  you  been  here  long  ? '  I  asked. 

*  I  came  to-day.' 

'  Why,  aren't  you  the  person  of  whom  .  .  .* 

*  Mr.  Baburin  spoke  to  the  lady  here.  The 
same,  the  same.' 

*Your  friend's  name's  Baburin,  and  what's 
yours  ?  * 

'I'm  Punin.  Punin's  my  name;  Punin. 
He's  Baburin  and  I'm  Punin.'  He  set  the 
little  cups  humming  again.  *  Listen,  listen  to 
the  chaffinch.  .  .  .  How  it  carols  ! ' 

This  queer  creature  took  my  fancy  *  awfully  * 
all  at  once.  Like  almost  all  boys,  I  was  either 
timid  or  consequential  with  strangers,  but  I 
felt  with  this  man  as  if  I  had  known  him  for 
ages. 

*  Come  along  with  me,'  I  said  to  him  ;  *  I 
know  a  place  better  than  this  ;  there 's  a  seat 
there ;  we  can  sit  down,  and  we  can  see  the 
dam  from  there.' 

*By  all  means  let  us  go,*  my  new  friend 
responded  in  his  singing  voice.  I  let  him  pass 
before  me.  As  he  walked  he  rolled  from  side 
to  side,  tripped  over  his  own  feet,  and  his  head 
fell  back. 

I  noticed  on  the  back  of  his  coat,  under  the 
85 


PUNIN    AND   BABURIN 

collar,  there  hung  a  small  tassel.  *  What 's  that 
you've  got  hanging  there?'  I  asked. 

'  Where  ? '  he  questioned,  and  he  put  his 
hand  up  to  the  collar  to  feel.  *  Ah,  the  tassel  ? 
Let  it  be!  I  suppose  it  was  sewn  there  for 
ornament !     It 's  not  in  the  way.' 

I  led  him  to  the  seat,  and  sat  down ;  he 
settled  himself  beside  me.  *  It 's  lovely  here ! ' 
he  commented,  and  he  drew  a  deep,  deep  sigh. 
'  Oh,  how  lovely !  You  have  a  most  splendid 
garden  !     Oh,  o — oh ! ' 

I  looked  at  him  from  one  side.  *What  a 
queer  cap  you've  got!'  I  couldn't  help  ex- 
claiming.    *  Show  it  me  here  ! ' 

*  By  all  means,  little  master,  by  all  means.' 
He  took  off  the  cap ;  I  was  holding  out  my 
hand,  but  I  raised  my  eyes,  and — simply  burst 
out  laughing.  Punin  was  completely  bald ; 
not  a  single  hair  was  to  be  seen  on  the  high 
conical  skull,  covered  with  smooth  white  skin. 

He  passed  his  open  hand  over  it,  and  he  too 
laughed.  When  he  laughed  he  seemed,  as  it 
were,  to  gulp,  he  opened  his  mouth  wide, 
closed  his  eyes — and  vertical  wrinkles  flitted 
across  his  forehead  in  three  rows,  like  waves. 
*Eh,'   said   he  at  last,   'isn't  it  quite  Hke   an 

egg?' 

'  Yes,  yes,  exactly  like  an  egg ! '  I  agreed 
with  enthusiasm.  *  And  have  you  been  like 
that  long  ? ' 

*  Yes,  a  long  while  ;   but  what  hair  I  used  to 

86 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

have ! — A  golden  fleece  like  that  for  which  the 
Argonauts  sailed  over  the  watery  deeps.' 

Though  I  was  only  twelve,  yet,  thanks  to 
my  mythological  studies,  I  knew  who  the 
Argonauts  were ;  I  was  the  more  surprised  at 
hearing  the  name  on  the  lips  of  a  man  dressed 
almost  in  rags. 

*  You  must  have  learned  mythology,  then  ? '  I 
queried,  as  I  twisted  his  cap  over  and  over  in 
my  hands.  It  turned  out  to  be  wadded,  with 
a  mangy-looking  fur  trimming,  and  a  broken 
cardboard  peak. 

*  I  have  studied  that  subject,  my  dear  little 
master ;  I  've  had  time  enough  for  everything 
in  my  life  !  But  now  restore  to  me  my  cover- 
ing, it  is  a  protection  to  the  nakedness  of  my 
head.' 

He  put  on  the  cap,  and,  with  a  downward 
slope  of  his  whitish  eyebrows,  asked  me  who 
I  was,  and  who  were  my  parents. 

*  I  'm  the  grandson  of  the  lady  who  owns 
this  place,'  I  answered.  *  I  live  alone  with  her. 
Papa  and  mamma  are  dead.' 

Punin  crossed  himself.  'May  the  kingdom 
of  heaven  be  theirs !  So  then,  you  're  an  orphan ; 
and  the  heir,  too.  The  noble  blood  in  you  is 
visible  at  once  ;  it  fairly  sparkles  in  your  eyes, 
and  plays  like  this  .  .  .  sh  ,  .  .  sh  .  .  .  sh  .  .  .' 
He  represented  with  his  fingers  the  play  of  the 
blood.  *Well,  and  do  you  know,  your  noble 
honour,  whether  my  friend  has  come  to  terms 
87 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

with  your  grandmamma,  whether  he  has  ob- 
tained the  situation  he  was  promised  ? ' 

*  I  don't  know.' 

Punin  cleared  his  throat.  *  Ah  !  if  one  could 
be  settled  here,  if  only  for  a  while!  Or  else 
one  may  wander  and  wander  far,  and  find  not 
a  place  to  rest  one's  head ;  the  disquieting 
alarms  of  life  are  unceasing,  the  soul  is  con- 
founded. .  .  .* 

'Tell  me,'  I  interrupted:  'are  you  of  the 
clerical  profession  ? ' 

Punin  turned  to  me  and  half  closed  his  eye- 
lids. 'And  what  may  be  the  cause  of  that 
question,  gentle  youth  ? ' 

'Why,  you  talk  so — well,  as  they  read  in 
church.' 

'Because  I  use  the  old  scriptural  forms  of 
expression?  But  that  ought  not  to  surprise 
you.  Admitting  that  in  ordinary  conversation 
such  forms  of  expression  are  not  always  in 
place ;  but  when  one  soars  on  the  wings  of 
inspiration,  at  once  the  language  too  grows 
more  exalted.  Surely  your  teacher — the  pro- 
fessor of  Russian  literature — you  do  have 
lessons  in  that,  I  suppose  ? — surely  he  teaches 
you  that,  doesn't  he  ? ' 

'No,  he  doesn't,'  I  responded.  'When  we 
stay  in  the  country  I  have  no  teacher.  In 
Moscow  I  have  a  great  many  teachers.' 

'And  will  you  be  staying  long  in  the 
country  ? ' 

88 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

*  Two  months,  not  longer ;  grandmother  says 
that  I  'm  spoilt  in  the  country,  though  I  have 
a  governess  even  here.' 

*  A  French  governess  ? ' 
'Yes.' 

Punin  scratched  behind  his  ear.  *A  mam- 
selle,  that 's  to  say  ? ' 

*  Yes ;  she 's  called  Mademoiselle  Friquet' 
I  suddenly  felt  it  disgraceful  for  me,  a  boy  of 
twelve,  to  have  not  a  tutor,  but  a  governess, 
like  a  little  girl !  *  But  I  don't  mind  her,'  I 
added  contemptuously.     *  What  do  I  care  ! ' 

Punin  shook  his  head.  *  Ah,  you  gentlefolk, 
you  gentlefolk  !  you  're  too  fond  of  foreigners ! 
You  have  turned  away  from  what  is  Russian, — 
towards  all  that 's  strange.  You  've  turned  your 
hearts  to  those  that  come  from  foreign  parts.  .  .  .' 

*  Hullo  1    Are  you  talking  in  verse? '  I  asked. 

*  Well,  and  why  not  ?  I  can  do  that  always, 
as  much  as  you  please ;  for  it  comes  natural 
to  me.  .  .  .' 

But  at  that  very  instant  there  sounded  in 
the  garden  behind  us  a  loud  and  shrill  whistle. 
My  new  acquaintance  hurriedly  got  up  from  the 
bench. 

*  Good-bye,  little  sir ;  that 's  my  friend  call- 
ing me,  looking  for  me.  .  .  .  What  has  he  to 
tell  me?     Good-bye — excuse  me.  .  .  .' 

He  plunged  into  the  bushes  and  vanished, 
while  I  sat  on  some  time  longer  on  the  seat. 
I  felt  perplexity  and  another  feeling,  rather  an 
89 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

agreeable  one.  .  .  I  had  never  met  nor  spoken 
to  any  one  like  this  before.  Gradually  I  fell  to 
dreaming,  but  recollected  my  mythology  and 
sauntered  towards  the  house. 

At  home,  I  learned  that  my  grandmother 
nad  arranged  to  take  Baburin  ;  he  had  been 
assigned  a  small  room  in  the  servants'  quarters, 
overlooking  the  stable-yard.  He  had  at  once 
settled  in  there  with  his  friend. 

When  I  had  drunk  my  tea,  next  morning, 
without  asking  leave  of  Mademoiselle  Friquet, 
I  set  off  to  the  servants'  quarters.  I  wanted  to 
have  another  chat  with  the  queer  fellow  I  had 
seen  the  day  before.  Without  knocking  at  the 
door — the  very  idea  of  doing  so  would  never 
have  occurred  to  us — I  walked  straight  into  the 
room.  I  found  in  it  not  the  man  I  was  looking 
for,  not  Punin,  but  his  protector — the  philan- 
thropist, Baburin.  He  was  standing  before  the 
window,  without  his  outer  garment,  his  legs 
wide  apart.  He  was  busily  engaged  in  rubbing 
his  head  and  neck  with  a  long  towel. 

*  What  do  you  want  ?  *  he  observed,  keeping 
his  hands  still  raised,  and  knitting  his  brows. 

'  Punin 's  not  at  home,  then  ? '  I  queried  in  the 
most  free-and-easy  manner,  without  taking  off 
my  cap. 

*  Mr.  Punin,  Nikander  Vavilitch,  at  this 
moment,  is  not  at  home,  truly,'  Baburin  re- 
sponded deliberately ;  '  but  allow  me  to  make 

90 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

an  observation,  young  man  :  it 's  not  the  proper 
thing  to  come  into  another  person's  room  like 
this,  without  asking  leave.* 

I!  .  .  .  young  man!  .  .  .  how  dared  he!  .  ,  , 
I  grew  crimson  with  fury. 

'  You  cannot  be  aware  who  I  am/  I  rejoined, 
in  a  manner  no  longer  free-and-easy,  but 
haughty.  *  I  am  the  grandson  of  the  mistress 
here.' 

*  That's  all  the  same  to  me,'  retorted  Baburin, 
setting  to  work  with  his  towel  again.  *  Though 
you  are  the  seignorial  grandson,  you  have  no 
right  to  come  into  other  people's  rooms.' 

*  Other  people's  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
I  'm — at  home  here — everywhere.' 

*  No,  excuse  me :  here — I  'm  at  home  ;  since 
this  room  has  been  assigned  to  me,  by  agree- 
ment, in  exchange  for  my  work.* 

*  Don't  teach  me,  if  you  please/  I  interrupted  : 
*  I  know  better  than  you  what  .  .  .' 

*  You  must  be  taught,'  he  interrupted  in  his 
turn,  *  for  you  're  at  an  age  when  you  ...  I 
know  my  duties,  but  I  know  my  rights  too 
very  well,  and  if  you  continue  to  speak  to  me 
in  that  way,  I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  go  out 
of  the  room.  .  .  .* 

There  is  no  knowing  how  our  dispute  would 
have  ended  if  Punin  had  not  at  that  instant 
entered,  shuffling  and  shambling  from  side  to 
side.  He  most  likely  guessed  from  the  expres- 
sion of  our  faces  that  some  unpleasantness  had 

01 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

passed  between  us,  and  at  once  turned  to  me 
with  the  warmest  expressions  of  deh'ght. 

*Ah!  little  master!  little  master!'  he  cried, 
waving  his  hands  wildly,  and  going  off  into  his 
noiseless  laugh :  *  the  little  dear !  come  to  pay 
me  a  visit!  here  he's  come,  the  little  dear!' 
(What's  the  meaning  of  it  ?  I  thought:  can 
he  be  speaking  in  this  familiar  way  to  me?) 
'There,  come  along,  come  with  me  into  the 
garden.  I  've  found  something  there.  .  .  .  Why 
stay  in  this  stuffiness  here !  let 's  go  ! ' 

I  followed  Punin,  but  in  the  doorway  I 
thought  it  as  well  to  turn  round  and  fling 
a  glance  of  defiance  at  Baburin,  as  though  to 
say,  I  'm  not  afraid  of  you  ! 

He  responded  in  the  same  way,  and  positively 
snorted  into  the  towel — probably  to  make  me 
thoroughly  aware  how  utterly  he  despised  me  ! 

'  What  an  insolent  fellow  your  friend  is ! '  I 
said  to  Punin,  directly  the  door  had  closed 
behind  me. 

Almost  with  horror,  Punin  turned  his  plump 
face  to  me. 

*  To  whom  did  you  apply  that  expression  ? 
he  asked  me,  with  round  eyes. 

*Why,  to  him,  of  course.   .   .    .  What's  his 
name?  that  .  .  .  Baburin.' 
'  Paramon  Semyonevitch  ? ' 
'  Why,  yes ;  that  .  .  .  blackfaced  fellow.* 

*  Eh  .  .  .  eh  .  .  .  eh  .  .  . ! '  Punin  protested, 
with  caressing  reproachful ness.     *  How  can  you 

93 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

talk  like  that,  little  master!  Paramon  Sem- 
yonevitch  is  the  most  estimable  man,  of  the 
strictest  principles,  an  extraordinary  person  ! 
To  be  sure,  he  won't  allow  any  disrespect  to 
him,  because — he  knows  his  own  value.  That 
man  possesses  a  vast  amount  of  knowledge — 
and  it 's  not  a  place  like  this  he  ought  to  be 
filling!  You  must,  my  dear,  behave  very 
courteously  to  him  ;  do  you  know,  he 's  .  .  .' 
here  Punin  bent  down  quite  to  my  ear, — 'a 
republican ! ' 

I  stared  at  Punin.  This  I  had  not  at  all 
expected.  From  Keidanov's  manual  and  other 
historical  works  I  had  gathered  the  fact  that  at 
some  period  or  other,  in  ancient  times,  there 
had  existed  republicans,  Greeks  and  Romans. 
For  some  unknown  reason  I  had  always  pictured 
them  all  in  helmets,  with  round  shields  on  their 
arms,  and  big  bare  legs ;  but  that  in  real  life, 
in  the  actual  present,  above  all,  in  Russia,  in 

the  province  of  X ,  one  could  come  across 

republicans — that  upset  all  my  notions,  and 
utterly  confounded  them ! 

'  Yes,  my  dear,  yes ;  Paramon  Semyonitch 
is  a  republican,'  repeated  Punin ;  *  there,  so 
you'll  know  for  the  future  how  one  should 
speak  of  a  man  like  that  I  But  now  let's  go 
into  the  garden.  Fancy  what  I  've  found  there  ! 
A  cuckoo's  egg  in  a  redstart's  nest !  a  lovely 
thing ! ' 

I  went  into  the  garden  with  Punin ;  but 
93 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

mentally  I  kept  repeating  :  '  republican  !  re  . . . 
pub  .  .  .  lican !  * 

*So/  I  decided  at  last — *  that's  why  he  has 
such  a  blue  chin  !' 

My  attitude  to  these  two  persons — Punin 
and  Baburin — took  definite  shape  from  that 
very  day.  Baburin  aroused  in  me  a  feeling  of 
hostility  with  which  there  was,  however,  in  a 
short  time,  mingled  something  akin  to  respect. 
And  wasn't  I  afraid  of  him  !  I  never  got  over 
being  afraid  of  him  even  when  the  sharp  severity 
of  his  manner  with  me  at  first  had  quite  dis- 
appeared. It  is  needless  to  say  that  of  Punin 
I  had  no  fear ;  I  did  not  even  respect  him  ;  I 
looked  upon  him — not  to  put  too  fine  a  point 
on  it — as  a  buffoon ;  but  I  loved  him  with  my 
whole  soul !  To  spend  hours  at  a  time  in  his 
company,  to  be  alone  with  him,  to  listen  to  his 
stories,  became  a  genuine  delight  to  me.  My 
grandmother  was  anything  but  pleased  at  this 
intimity  with  a  person  of  the  '  lower  classes ' — 
du  commun ;  but,  whenever  I  could  break 
away,  I  flew  at  once  to  my  queer,  amusing, 
beloved  friend.  Our  meetings  became  more 
frequent  after  the  departure  of  Mademoiselle 
Friquet,  whom  my  grandmother  sent  back  to 
Moscow  in  disgrace  because,  in  conversation 
with  a  military  staff  captain,  visiting  in  the 
neighbourhood,  she  had  had  the  insolence  to 
complain  of  the  dulness  which  reigned  in  our 
94 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

household.  And  Punin,  for  his  part,  was  not 
bored  by  long  conversations  with  a  boy  of 
twelve ;  he  seemed  to  seek  them  of  himself. 
How  often  have  I  listened  to  his  stories,  sitting 
with  him  in  the  fragrant  shade,  on  the  dry, 
smooth  grass,  under  the  canopy  of  the  silver 
poplars,  or  among  the  reeds  above  the  pond, 
on  the  coarse,  damp  sand  of  the  hollow 
bank,  from  which  the  knotted  roots  protruded, 
queerly  interlaced,  like  great  black  veins,  like 
snakes,  like  creatures  emerging  from  some  sub- 
terranean region !  Punin  told  me  the  whole 
story  of  his  life  in  minute  detail,  describing  all 
his  happy  adventures,  and  all  his  misfortunes, 
with  which  I  always  felt  the  sincerest  sympathy ! 
His  father  had  been  a  deacon; — *a  splendid 
man — but,  under  the  influence  of  drink,  stern 
to  the  last  extreme/ 

Punin  himself  had  received  his  education  in 
a  seminary ;  but,  unable  to  stand  the  severe 
thrashings,  and  feeling  no  inclination  for  the 
priestly  calling,  he  had  become  a  layman,  and 
in  consequence  had  experienced  all  sorts  of 
hardships  ;  and,  finally,  had  become  a  vagrant. 
'And  had  I  not  met  with  my  benefactor, 
Paramon  Semyonitch,'  Punin  commonly  added 
(he  never  spoke  of  Baburin  except  in  this 
way),  '  I  should  have  sunk  into  the  miry 
abysses  of  poverty  and  vice.'  Punin  was  fond 
of  high-sounding  expressions,  and  had  a  great 
propensity,  if  not  for  lying,  for  romancing  and 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

exaggeration  ;  he  admired  everything,  fell  into 
ecstasies  over  everything.  .  .  .  And  I,  in  imita- 
tion of  him,  began  to  exaggerate  and  be 
ecstatic,  too.  'What  a  crazy  fellow  you've 
grown  !  God  have  mercy  on  you!'  my  old  nurse 
used  to  say  to  me.  Punin's  narratives  used  to 
interest  me  extremely;  but  even  better  than 
his  stories  I  loved  the  readings  we  used  to  have 
together. 

It  is  impossible  to  describe  the  feeling 
I  experienced  when,  snatching  a  favourable 
moment,  suddenly,  like  a  hermit  in  a  tale  or  a 
good  fairy,  he  appeared  before  me  with  a  pon- 
derous volume  under  his  arm,  and  stealthily 
beckoning  with  his  long  crooked  finger,  and 
winking  mysteriously,  he  pointed  with  his 
head,  his  eyebrows,  his  shoulders,  his  whole 
person,  toward  the  deepest  recesses  of  the 
garden,  whither  no  one  could  penetrate  after 
us,  and  where  it  was  impossible  to  find  us  out. 
And  when  we  had  succeeded  in  getting  away 
unnoticed  ;  when  we  had  satisfactorily  reached 
one  of  our  secret  nooks,  and  were  sitting  side  by 
side,  and,  at  last,  the  book  was  slowly  opened, 
emitting  a  pungent  odour,  inexpressibly  sweet 
to  me  then,  of  mildew  and  age; — with  what  a 
thrill,  with  what  a  wave  of  dumb  expectancy,  I 
gazed  at  the  face,  at  the  lips  of  Punin,  those 
lips  from  which  in  a  moment  a  stream  of  such 
delicious  eloquence  was  to  flow !  At  last 
the  first  sounds  of  the  reading  were  heard. 
96 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

Everything  around  me  vanished  ...  no,  not 
vanished,  but  grew  far  away,  passed  into 
clouds  of  mist,  leaving  behind  only  an  impres- 
sion of  something  friendly  and  protecting. 
Those  trees,  those  green  leaves,  those  high 
grasses  screen  us,  hide  us  from  all  the  rest  of 
the  world  ;  no  one  knows  where  we  are,  what 
we  are  about — while  with  us  is  poetry,  we  are 
saturated  in  it,  intoxicated  with  it,  something 
solemn,  grand,  mysterious  is  happening  to  us. 
.  .  .  Punin,  by  preference,  kept  to  poetry, 
musical,  sonorous  poetry  ;  he  was  ready  to  lay 
down  his  life  for  poetry.  He  did  not  read,  he 
declaimed  the  verse  majestically,  in  a  torrent 
of  rhythm,  in  a  rolling  outpour  through  his 
nose,  like  a  man  intoxicated,  lifted  out  of  him- 
self, like  the  Pythian  priestess.  And  another 
habit  he  had :  first  he  would  lisp  the  verses 
through  softly,  in  a  whisper,  as  it  were  mum- 
bling them  to  himself. .  . .  This  he  used  to  call 
the  rough  sketch  of  the  reading ;  then  he  would 
thunder  out  the  same  verse  in  its  *  fair  copy,' 
and  would  all  at  once  leap  up,  throw  up  his 
hand,  with  a  half-supplicating,  half-imperious 
gesture.  ...  In  this  way  we  went  through  not 
only  Lomonosov,  Sumarokov,  and  Kantemir 
(the  older  the  poems,  the  more  they  were  to 
Punin^s  taste),  but  even  Heraskov's  Rossiad. 
And,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  was  this  same  Ros- 
siad which  aroused  my  enthusiasm  most. 
There  is  in  it,  among  others,  a  mighty  Tatar 
G  97 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

woman,  a  gigantic  heroine;  I  have  forgotten 
even  her  name  now ;  but  in  those  days  my 
hands  and  feet  turned  cold  as  soon  as  it  was 
mentioned.  *  Yes/  Punin  would  say,  nodding 
his  head  with  great  significance,  '  Heraskov, 
he  doesn't  let  one  off  easily.  At  times  one 
comes  upon  a  line,  simply  heart-breaking.  .  .  . 
One  can  only  stick  to  it,  and  do  one's  best.  .  .  . 
One  tries  to  master  it,  but  he  breaks  away 
again  and  trumpets,  trumpets,  with  the  crash 
of  cymbals.  His  name 's  been  well  bestowed  on 
him — the  very  word,  Herrraskov  ! '  Lomono- 
sov  Punin  found  fault  with  for  too  simple  and 
free  a  style  ;  while  to  Derzhavin  he  maintained 
an  attitude  almost  of  hostility,  saying  that  he 
was  more  of  a  courtier  than  a  poet.  In  our 
house  it  was  not  merely  that  no  attention  was 
given  to  literature,  to  poetry;  but  poetry, 
especially  Russian  poetry,  was  looked  upon  as 
something  quite  undignified  and  vulgar;  my 
grandmother  did  not  even  call  it  poetry,  but 
'  doggrel  verses ' ;  every  author  of  such  doggrel 
was,  in  her  opinion,  either  a  confirmed  toper  or 
a  perfect  idiot.  Brought  up  among  such  ideas, 
it  was  inevitable  that  I  should  either  turn  from 
Punin  with  disgust — he  was  untidy  and  shabby 
into  the  bargain,  which  was  an  offence  to  my  seig- 
norial  habits — or  that,  attracted  and  captivated 
by  him,  I  should  follow  his  example,  and  be 
infected  by  his  passion  for  poetry.  .  .  .  And  so 
it  turned  out.  I,  too,  began  reading  poetry,  or, 
98 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

as  my  grandmother  expressed  it,  poring  over 
doggrel  trash.  ...  I  even  tried  my  hand  at 
versifying,  and  composed  a  poem,  descriptive 
of  abarrel-organ,  in  which  occurred  the  follow- 
ing two  lines : 

'  Lo,  the  barrel  turns  around, 
And  the  cogs  within  resound.' 

Punin  commended  in  this  effort  a  certain 
imitative  melody,  but  disapproved  of  the 
subject  itself  as  low  and  unworthy  of  lyrical 
treatment. 

Alas !  all  those  efforts  and  emotions  and 
transports,  our  solitary  readings,  our  life 
together,  our  poetry,  all  came  to  an  end  at 
once.  Trouble  broke  upon  us  suddenly,  like  a 
clap  of  thunder. 

My  grandmother  in  everything  liked  cleanli- 
ness and  order,  quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  active 
generals  of  those  days ;  cleanliness  and  order 
were  to  be  maintained  too  in  our  garden. 
And  so  from  time  to  time  they  *  drove'  into  it 
poor  peasants,  who  had  no  families,  no  land,  no 
beasts  of  their  own,  and  those  among  the  house 
serfs  who  were  out  of  favour  or  superannuated, 
and  set  them  to  clearing  the  paths,  weeding 
the  borders,  breaking  up  and  sifting  the  earth 
in  the  beds,  and  so  on.  Well,  one  day,  in  the 
very  heat  of  these  operations,  my  grandmother 
went  into  the  garden,  and  took  me  with  her.  On 
^11  sides,  among  the  trees  and  about  the  lawnSj 
99 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

we  caught  glimpses  of  white,  red,  and  blue 
smocks ;  on  all  sides  we  heard  the  scraping  and 
clanging  of  spades,  the  dull  thud  of  clods  of 
earth  on  the  slanting  sieves.  As  she  passed 
by  the  labourers,  my  grandmother  with  her 
eagle  eye  noticed  at  once  that  one  of  them  was 
working  with  less  energy  than  the  rest,  and 
that  he  took  off  his  cap,  too,  with  no  show  of 
eagerness.  This  was  a  youth,  still  quite  young, 
with  a  wasted  face,  and  sunken,  lustreless  eyes. 
His  cotton  smock,  all  torn  and  patched,  scarcely 
held  together  over  his  narrow  shoulders. 

*  Who 's  that  ? '  my  grandmother  inquired  of 
Filippitch,  who  was  walking  on  tiptoe  behind 
her. 

*  Of  whom  .  .  .  you  are  pleased  .  .  /  Filip- 
pitch stammered. 

*  Oh,  fool !  I  mean  the  one  that  looked  so 
sullenly  at  me.  There,  standing  yonder,  not 
working.' 

*  Oh,  him !  Yes  .  .  .  th  .  .  .  th  .  .  .  that 's 
Yermil,  son  of  Pavel  Afanasiitch,  now  de- 
ceased.* 

Pavel  Afanasiitch  had  been,  ten  years  before, 
head  butler  in  my  grandmother's  house,  and 
stood  particularly  high  in  her  favour.  But  sud- 
denly falling  into  disgrace,  he  was  as  suddenly 
degraded  to  being  herdsman,  and  did  not  long 
keep  even  that  position.  He  sank  lower  still, 
and  struggled  on  for  a  while  on  a  monthly 
pittance  of  flour  in  a  little  hut  far  away.     At 

}0p 


I»UNIN  AND  BABURIN 

last  he  had  died  of  paralysis,  leaving  his  family 
in  the  most  utter  destitution. 

*Aha!'  commented  my  grandmother;  'it's 
clear  the  apple 's  not  fallen  far  from  the  tree. 
Well,  we  shall  have  to  make  arrangements 
about  this  fellow  too.  I  've  no  need  of  people 
like  that,  with  scowling  faces.' 

My  grandmother  went  back  to  the  house — 
and  made  arrangements.  Three  hours  later 
Yermil,  completely  'equipped,'  was  brought 
under  the  window  of  her  room.  The  unfor- 
tunate boy  was  being  transported  to  a  settle- 
ment ;  the  other  side  of  the  fence,  a  few  steps 
from  him,  was  a  little  cart  loaded  with  his  poor 
belongings.  Such  were  the  times  then.  Yer- 
mil stood  without  his  cap,  with  downcast  head, 
barefoot,  with  his  boots  tied  up  with  a  string 
behind  his  back  ;  his  face,  turned  towards  the 
seignorial  mansion,  expressed  not  despair  nor 
grief,  nor  even  bewilderment ;  a  stupid  smile 
was  frozen  on  his  colourless  lips ;  his  eyes,  dry 
and  half-closed,  looked  stubbornly  on  the 
ground.  My  grandmother  was  apprised  of  his 
presence.  She  got  up  from  the  sofa,  went,  with 
a  faint  rustle  of  her  silken  skirts,  to  the  window 
of  the  study,  and,  holding  her  golden-rimmed 
double  eyeglass  on  the  bridge  of  her  nose, 
looked  at  the  new  exile.  In  her  room  there 
happened  to  be  at  the  moment  four  other  per- 
sons, the  butler,  Baburin,  the  page  who  waited 
on  my  grandmother  in  the  daytime,  and  I. 

lOI 


tUNiN  AND  BABURl!^ 

My  grandmother  nodded  her  head  up  and 
down.  .  .  . 

*  Madam,'  a  hoarse  almost  stifled  voice  was 
heard  suddenly.  I  looked  round.  Baburin's 
face  was  red  .  .  dark  red  ;  under  his  over- 
hanging brows  could  be  seen  little  sharp  points 
of  light  .  .  .  There  was  no  doubt  about  it ;  it 
was  he,  it  was  Baburin,  who  had  uttered  the 
word  '  Madam.' 

My  grandmother  too  looked  round,  and 
turned  her  eyeglass  from  Yermil  to  Baburin. 

*  Who  is  that  .  .  .  speaking  ? '  she  articulated 
slowly  .  .  .  through  her  nose.  Baburin  moved 
slightly  forward. 

*  Madam,'  he  began,  *  it  is  I. ...  I  venture  .  . . 
I  imagine  ...  I  make  bold  to  submit  to  your 
honour  that  you  are  making  a  mistake  in 
acting  as  ...  as  you  are  pleased  to  act  at  this 
moment.' 

*That  is?'  my  grandmother  said,  in  the 
same  voice,  not  removing  her  eyeglass. 

*  I  take  the  liberty  .  .  .'  Baburin  went  on 
distinctly,  uttering  every  word  though  with 
obvious  effort — '  I  am  referring  to  the  case  of 
this  lad  who  is  being  sent  away  to  a  settlement 
...  for  no  fault  of  his.  Such  arrangements,  I 
venture  to  submit,  lead  to  dissatisfaction,  and 
to  other — which  God  forbid  ! — consequences, 
and  are  nothing  else  than  a  transgression  of 
the  powers  allowed  to  seignorial  proprietors.' 

*And  where  have  you  studied,  pray?'   my 

102 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

grandmother  asked  after  a  short  silence,  and 
she  dropped  her  eyeglass. 

Baburin  was  disconcerted.     'What  are  you 
pleased  to  wish  ? '  he  muttered. 

*  I  ask  you :  where  have  you  studied  ?     You 
use  such  learned  words.' 

*  I  .  .  .   my  education   .  ,   ,*     Baburin  was 
beginning. 

My  grandmother  shrugged  her  shoulders 
contemptuously.  *  It  seems/  she  interrupted, 
'that  my  arrangements  are  not  to  your  liking. 
That  is  of  absolutely  no  consequence  to  me — 
among  my  subjects  I  am  sovereign,  and 
answerable  to  no  one  for  them,  only  I  am  not 
accustomed  to  having  people  criticising  me  in 
my  presence,  and  meddling  in  what  is  not 
their  business.  I  have  no  need  of  learned 
philanthropists  of  nondescript  position  ;  I  want 
servants  to  do  my  will  without  question.  So 
I  always  lived  till  you  came,  and  so  I  shall 
live  after  you  've  gone.  You  do  not  suit  me  ; 
you  are  discharged.  Nikolai  Antonov,'  my 
grandmother  turned  to  the  steward,  'pay  this 
man  off;  and  let  him  be  gone  before  dinner- 
time to-day!  D'you  hear?  Don't  put  me 
into  a  passion.  And  the  other  too  .  .  .  the 
fool  that  lives  with  him — to  be  sent  off  too. 
What's  Yermilka  waiting  for?'  she  added, 
looking  out  of  window,  '  I  have  seen  him. 
What  more  does  he  want?'  My  grandmother 
shook  her  handkerchief  in  the  direction  of  the 
103 


fUNlN  AND  BABURIN 

window,  as  though  to  drive  away  an  impor- 
tunate fly.  Then  she  sat  down  in  a  low 
chair,  and  turning  towards  us,  gave  the 
order  grimly  :  *  Everybody  present  to  leave 
the  room ! ' 

We  all  withdrew — all,  except  the  day  page, 
to  whom  my  grandmother's  words  did  not 
apply,  because  he  was  nobody. 

My  grandmother's  decree  was  carried  out  to 
the  letter.  Before  dinner,  both  Baburin  and 
my  friend  Punin  were  driving  away  from  the 
place.  I  will  not  undertake  to  describe  my 
grief,  my  genuine,  truly  childish  despair.  It 
was  so  strong  that  it  stifled  even  the  feeling  of 
awe-stricken  admiration  inspired  by  the  bold 
action  of  the  republican  Baburin.  After  the 
conversation  with  my  grandmother,  he  went 
at  once  to  his  room  and  began  packing  up. 
He  did  not  vouchsafe  me  one  word,  one  look, 
though  I  was  the  whole  time  hanging  about 
him,  or  rather,  in  reality,  about  Punin.  The 
latter  was  utterly  distraught,  and  he  too  said 
nothing ;  but  he  was  continually  glancing  at 
me,  and  tears  stood  in  his  eyes  .  .  .  always 
the  same  tears ;  they  neither  fell  nor  dried  up. 
He  did  not  venture  to  criticise  his  '  benefactor' 
— Paramon  Semyonitch  could  not  make  a 
mistake,  —  but  great  was  his  distress  and 
dejection.  Punin  and  I  made  an  effort  to  read 
something  out  of  the  Rossiad  for  the  last 
104 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

time;  we  even  locked  ourselves  up  in  the 
lumber-room — it  was  useless  to  dream  of  going 
into  the  garden — but  at  the  very  first  line  we 
both  broke  down,  and  I  fairly  bellowed  like  a 
calf,  in  spite  of  my  twelve  years,  and  my  claims 
to  be  grown-up. 

When  he  had  taken  his  seat  in  the  carriage 
Baburin  at  last  turned  to  me,  and  with  a  slight 
softening  of  the  accustomed  sternness  of  his 
face,  observed :  *  It 's  a  lesson  for  you,  young 
gentleman  ;  remember  this  incident,  and  when 
you  grow  up,  try  to  put  an  end  to  such  acts  of 
injustice.  Your  heart  is  good,  your  nature  is 
not  yet  corrupted.  .  .  .  Mind,  be  careful ; 
things  can't  go  on  like  this ! '  Through  my 
tears,  which  streamed  copiously  over  my  nose, 
my  lips,  and  my  chin,  I  faltered  out  that  I  would 
...  I  would  remember,  that  I  promised  .  .  . 
I  would  do  ...  I  would  be  sure  .  ,  .  quite 
sure  ,  .  . 

But  at  this  point,  Punin,  whom  I  had  before 
this  embraced  twenty  times  (my  cheeks  were 
burning  from  the  contact  with  his  unshaven 
beard,  and  I  was  odoriferous  of  the  smell  that 
always  clung  to  him) — at  this  point  a  sudden 
frenzy  came  over  Punin.  He  jumped  up  on 
the  seat  of  the  cart,  fking  both  hands  up  in  the 
air,  and  began  in  a  voice  of  thunder  (where 
he  got  it  from  ! )  to  declaim  the  well-known 
paraphrase  of  the  Psalm  of  David  by  Derzhavin, 
— a  poet  for  this  occasion — not  a  courtier, 
los 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

*  God  the  All-powerful  doth  arise 
And  judgeth  in  the  congregation  of  the  mighty  I  .  ,  , 
How  long,  how  long,  saith  the  Lord, 
Will  ye  have  mercy  on  the  wicked  ? 
"  Ye  have  to  keep  the  laws.  .  .  .*" 

*  Sit  down  ! '  Baburin  said  to  him. 
Punin  sat  down,  but  continued  : 

*  To  save  the  guiltless  and  needy, 
To  give  shelter  to  the  afflicted, 
To  defend  the  weak  from  the  oppressors.' 

Punin  at  the  word  'oppressors*  pointed  to 
the  seignorial  abode,  and  then  poked  the  driver 
in  the  back. 

*  To  deliver  the  poor  out  of  bondage  1 

They  know  not !  neither  will  they  understand  1  .  .  . 

Nikolai  Antonov  running  out  of  the  seignorial 
abode,  shouted  at  the  top  of  his  voice  to  the 
coachman :  *  Get  away  with  you !  owl !  go 
along !  don't  stay  lingering  here  !  *  and  the 
cart  rolled  away.  Only  in  the  distance  could 
still  be  heard  : 

*  Arise,  O  Lord  God  of  righteousness !  .  .  . 
Come  forth  to  judge  the  unjust — 
And  be  Thou  the  only  Ruler  of  the  nations  1 ' 

*  What  a  clown  ! '  remarked  Nikolai  Antonov. 

*  He  didn't  get  enough  of  the  rod  in  his 
young  days,'  observed  the  deacon,  appearing 
on  the  steps.  He  had  come  to  inquire  what 
hour  it  would  please  the  mistress  to  fix  for  the 
night  service. 

xo6 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

The  same  day,  learning  that  Yermil  was  still 
in  the  village,  and  would  not  till  early  next  morn- 
ing be  despatched  to  the  town  for  the  execution 
of  certain  legal  formalities,  which  were  intended 
to  check  the  arbitrary  proceedings  of  the  land- 
owners, but  served  only  as  a  source  of  additional 
revenue  to  the  functionaries  in  superintendence 
of  them,  I  sought  him  out,  and,  for  lack  of 
money  of  my  own,  handed  him  a  bundle,  in 
which  I  had  tied  up  two  pocket-handkerchiefs, 
a  shabby  pair  of  slippers,  a  comb,  an  old  night- 
gown, and  a  perfectly  new  silk  cravat.  Yermil, 
whom  I  had  to  wake  up — he  was  lying  on  a  heap 
of  straw  in  the  back  yard,  near  the  cart — Yermil 
took  my  present  rather  indifferently,  with  some 
hesitation  in  fact,  did  not  thank  me,  promptly 
poked  his  head  into  the  straw  and  fell  asleep 
again.  I  went  home  somewhat  disappointed. 
I  had  imagined  that  he  would  be  astonished 
and  overjoyed  at  my  visit,  would  see  in  it  a 
pledge  of  my  magnanimous  intentions  for  the 
future — and  instead  of  that  .  .  . 

*  You  may  say  what  you  like — these  people 
have  no  feeling,'  was  my  reflection  on  my  home- 
ward way. 

My  grandmother,  who  had  for  some  reason 
left  me  in  peace  the  whole  of  that  memorable 
day,  looked  at  me  suspiciously  when  I  came 
after  supper  to  say  good-night  to  her. 

*Your  eyes  are  red,'  she  observed  to  me  in 
French  ;  'and  there  *s  a  smell  of  the  peasant's  hut 
107 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

about  you.  I  am  not  going  to  enter  into  an  ex- 
amination of  what  you  've  been  feeling  and  doing 
— I  should  not  like  to  be  obliged  to  punish  you 
— but  I  hope  you  will  get  over  all  your  foolish- 
ness, and  begin  to  conduct  yourself  once  more 
in  a  manner  befitting  a  well-bred  boy.  How- 
ever, we  are  soon  going  back  to  Moscow,  and  I 
shall  get  you  a  tutor — as  I  see  you  need  a 
man's  hand  to  manage  you.     You  can  go.' 

We  did,  as  a  fact,  go  back  soon  after  to 
Moscow. 


II 

1837 

Seven  years  had  passed  by.  We  were  living 
as  before  at  Moscow — but  I  was  by  now  a 
student  in  my  second  year — and  the  authority 
of  my  grandmother,  who  had  aged  very  per- 
ceptibly in  the  last  years,  no  longer  weighed  upon 
me.  Of  all  my  fellow-students  the  one  with 
whom  I  was  on  the  friendliest  terms  was  a  light- 
hearted  and  good-natured  youth  called  Tarhov. 
Our  habits  and  our  tastes  were  similar.  Tarhov 
was  a  great  lover  of  poetry,  and  himself  wrote 
verses ;  while  in  me  the  seeds  sown  by  Punin 
had  not  been  without  fruit.  As  is  often  the 
case  with  young  people  who  are  very  close 
friends,  we  had  no  secrets  from  one  another. 
But  behold)  for  several  days  together  I  noticed 
108 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

a  certain  excitement  and  agitation  in  Tarhov. 
...  He  disappeared  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  I 
did  not  know  where  he  had  got  to — a  thing 
which  had  never  happened  before.  I  was  on 
the  point  of  demanding,  in  the  name  of  friend- 
ship, a  full  explanation.  .  .  .  He  anticipated 
me. 

One  day  I  was  sitting  in  his  room.  ,  ,  . 
*  Petya,'  he  said  suddenly,  blushing  gaily,  and 
looking  me  straight  in  the  face, '  I  must  intro- 
duce you  to  my  muse.* 

*  Your  muse !  how  queerly  you  talk !  Like  a 
classicist.  (Romanticism  was  at  that  time,  in 
1837,  at  its  full  height.)  As  if  I  had  not  known 
it  ever  so  long — your  muse !  Have  you  written 
a  new  poem,  or  what  ? ' 

*  You  don't  understand  what  I  mean,'  rejoined 
Tarhov,  still  laughing  and  blushing.  '  I  will 
introduce  you  to  a  living  muse.' 

*  Aha  !  so  that 's  it !  But  how  is  she — 
yours  ? ' 

*  Why,  because  .  .  .  But  hush,  I  believe  it 's 
she  coming  here.' 

There  was  the  light  click  of  hurrying  heels, 
the  door  opened,  and  in  the  doorway  appeared 
a  girl  of  eighteen,  in  a  chintz  cotton  gown, 
with  a  black  cloth  cape  on  her  shoulders,  and 
a  black  straw  hat  on  her  fair,  rather  curly  hair. 
On  seeing  me  she  was  frightened  and  discon- 
certed, and  was  beating  a  retreat  .  .  .  but 
Tarhov  at  once  rushed  to  meet  her. 
109 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

*  Please,  please,  Musa  Pavlovna,come  in !  This 
is  my  great  friend,  a  splendid  fellow — and  the 
soul  of  discretion.  You  've  no  need  to  be  afraid 
of  him.  Petya,'  he  turned  to  me,  Met  me 
introduce  my  Musa — Musa  Pavlovna  Vinogra- 
dov, a  great  friend  of  mine.' 

I  bowed. 

*  How  is  that  .  .  .  Musa  ? '  I  was  beginning. 
.  .  .  Tarhov  laughed.  *  Ah,  you  didn't  know 
there  was  such  a  name  in  the  calendar?  I 
didn't  know  it  either,  my  boy,  till  I  met  this 
dear  young  lady.  Musa !  such  a  charming 
name !     And  suits  her  so  well ! ' 

I  bowed  again  to  my  comrade's  great  friend. 
She  left  the  door,  took  two  steps  forward  and 
stood  still.  She  was  very  attractive,  but  I  could 
not  agree  with  Tarhov's  opinion,  and  inwardly 
said  to  myself:  'Well,  she's  a  strange  sort  of 
muse ! ' 

The  features  of  her  curved,  rosy  face  were 
small  and  delicate ;  there  was  an  air  of  fresh, 
buoyant  youth  about  all  her  slender,  miniature 
figure ;  but  of  the  muse,  of  the  personification  of 
the  muse,  I — and  not  only  I — all  the  young 
people  of  that  time  had  a  very  different  concep- 
tion! First  of  all  the  muse  had  infallibly  to 
be  dark-haired  and  pale.  An  expression  of 
scornful  pride,  a  bitter  smile,  a  glance  of  in- 
spiration, and  that  'something' — mysterious, 
demonic,  fateful — that  was  essential  to  our 
conception  of  the  muse,  the  muse  of  Byron, 
J 10 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

who  at  that  time  held  sovereign  sway  over 
men's  fancies.  There  was  nothing  of  that  kind 
to  be  discerned  in  the  face  of  the  girl  who  came 
in.  Had  I  been  a  little  older  and  more  experi- 
enced I  should  probably  have  paid  more  atten- 
tion to  her  eyes,  which  were  small  and  deep-set, 
with  full  lids,  but  dark  as  agate,  alert  and 
bright,  a  thing  rare  in  fair-haired  people. 
Poetical  tendencies  I  should  not  have  detected 
in  their  rapid,  as  it  were  elusive,  glance,  but 
hints  of  a  passionate  soul,  passionate  to  self- 
forgetfulness.     But  I  was  very  young  then. 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  Musa  Pavlovna — she 
did  not  give  me  hers — she  did  not  notice  my 
movement ;  she  sat  down  on  the  chair  Tarhov 
placed  for  her,  but  did  not  take  off  her  hat  and 
cape. 

She  was,  obviously,  ill  at  ease ;  my  presence 
embarrassed  her.  She  drew  deep  breaths,  at 
irregular  intervals,  as  though  she  were  gasping 
for  air. 

'  I  've  only  come  to  you  for  one  minute, 
Vladimir  Nikolaitch,'  she  began — her  voice  was 
very  soft  and  deep ;  from  her  crimson,  almost 
childish  lips,  it  seemed  rather  strange; — 'but 
our  madame  would  not  let  me  out  for  more 
than  half  an  hour.  You  weren't  well  the  day 
before  yesterday  .  .  .  and  so,  I  thought  .  .  .' 

She  stammered  and  hung  her  head.  Under 
the  shade  of  her  thick,  low  brows  her  dark 
eyes  darted — to  and  fro — elusively.  There 
III 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

are  dark,  swift,  flashing  beetles  that  flit  so  in 
the  heat  of  summer  among  the  blades  of  dry 
grass. 

*  How  good  you  are,  Musa,  Musotchka !  * 
cried  Tarhov.  *  But  you  must  stay,  you  must 
stay  a  little.  .  .  .  We'll  have  the  samovar  in 
directly/ 

*0h  no,  Vladimir  Nikolaevitch !  it's  im- 
possible !     I  must  go  away  this  minute.' 

*  You  must  rest  a  little,  anyway.  You  're 
out  of  breath.  .  .  .  You  're  tired.' 

*  I  'm  not  tired.  It 's  .  .  .  not  that  .  .  .  only 
.  .  .  give  me  another  book  ;  I  've  finished  this 
one.'  She  took  out  of  her  pocket  a  tattered 
grey  volume  of  a  Moscow  edition. 

*  Of  course,  of  course.  Well,  did  you  like 
it?    RoslavleVy  added  Tarhov,  addressing  me. 

*Yes.  Only  I  think  Yury  Miloslavsky  is 
much  better.  Our  madame  is  very  strict  about 
books.  She  says  they  hinder  our  working. 
For,  to  her  thinking  .  .  .' 

*  But,  I  say,  Yury  Miloslavsky 's  not  equal  to 
Pushkin's  Gipsies}  Eh?  Musa  Pavlovna?' 
Tarhov  broke  in  with  a  smile. 

*  No,  indeed  I  The  Gipsies  .  .  .'  she  mur- 
mured slowly.  *  Oh  yes,  another  thing,  Vladi- 
mir Nikolaitch ;  don't  come  to-morrow  , . .  you 
know  where.' 

*Whynot?* 

*  It 's  impossible.' 

*  But  why?' 

112 


I>UNIN   AND   BABURIN 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  all  at 
once,  as  though  she  had  received  a  sudden 
shove,  got  up  from  her  chair. 

*  Why,  Musa,  Musotchka,'  Tarhov  expostu- 
lated plaintively.     *  Stay  a  little ! ' 

*  No,  no,  I  can't.'  She  went  quickly  to  the 
door,  took  hold  of  the  handle.  .  .  . 

'  Well,  at  least,  take  the  book ! ' 

*  Another  time.' 

Tarhov  rushed  towards  the  girl,  but  at  that 
instant  she  darted  out  of  the  room.  He  almost 
knocked  his  nose  against  the  door.  '  What  a 
girl !  She 's  a  regular  little  viper ! '  he  declared 
with  some  vexation,  and  then  sank  into 
thought. 

I  stayed  at  Tarhov's.  I  wanted  to  find  out 
what  was  the  meaning  of  it  all.  Tarhov  was 
not  disposed  to  be  reserved.  He  told  me  that 
the  girl  was  a  milliner  ;  that  he  had  seen  her  for 
the  first  time  three  weeks  before  in  a  fashion- 
able shop,  where  he  had  gone  on  a  commission 
for  his  sister,  who  lived  in  the  provinces,  to 
buy  a  hat ;  that  he  had  fallen  in  love  with  her 
at  first  sight,  and  that  next  day  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in  speaking  to  her  in  the  street ;  that 
she  had  herself,  it  seemed,  taken  rather  a  fancy 
to  him. 

'  Only,  please,  don't  you  suppose,'  he  added 
with  warmth, — '  don't  you  imagine  any  harm  of 
her.     So  far,  at  any  rate,  there 's  been  nothing 
of  that  sort  between  us.' 
H  113 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

*  Harm  ! '  I  caught  him  up ,  *  I  've  no  doubt 
of  that ;  and  I  've  no  doubt  either  that  you 
sincerely  deplore  the  fact,  my  dear  fellow ! 
Have  patience — everything  will  come  right' 

*  I  hope  so/  Tarhov  muttered  through  his 
teeth,  though  with  a  laugh.  'But  really,  my 
boy,  that  girl  ...  I  tell  you — it 's  a  new  type, 
you  know.  You  hadn't  time  to  get  a  good 
look  at  her.  She 's  a  shy  thing ! — oo  !  such  a 
shy  thing  !  and  what  a  will  of  her  own  !  But 
that  very  shyness  is  what  I  like  in  her.  It 's  a 
sign  of  independence  !  I  *m  simply  over  head 
and  ears,  my  boy ! ' 

Tarhov  fell  to  talking  of  his  *  charmer,'  and 
even  read  me  the  beginning  of  a  poem  entitled: 
'My  Muse.'  His  emotional  outpourings  were 
not  quite  to  my  taste.  I  felt  secretly  jealous 
of  him.     I  soon  left  him. 

A  few  days  after  I  happened  to  be  passing 
through  one  of  the  arcades  of  the  Gostinny 
Dvor.  It  was  Saturday  ;  there  were  crowds  of 
people  shopping  ;  on  all  sides,  in  the  midst  of 
the  pushing  and  crushing,  the  shopmen  kept 
shouting  to  people  to  buy.  Having  bought 
what  I  wanted,  I  was  thinking  of  nothing  but 
getting  away  from  their  teasing  importunity 
as  soon  as  possible — when  all  at  once  I  halted 
involuntarily :  in  a  fruit  shop  I  caught  sight 
of  my  comrade's  charmer — Musa,  Musa  Pav- 
lovna  I  She  was  standing,  profile  to  me,  and 
114 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

seemed  to  be  waiting  for  something.  After 
a  moment's  hesitation  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
go  up  to  her  and  speak.  But  I  had  hardly- 
passed  through  the  doorway  of  the  shop 
and  taken  off  my  cap,  when  she  tottered  back 
dismayed,  turned  quickly  to  an  old  man  in 
a  frieze  cloak,  for  whom  the  shopman  was 
weighing  out  a  pound  of  raisins,  and  clutched 
at  his  arm,  as  though  fleeing  to  put  herself 
under  his  protection.  The  latter,  in  his  turn, 
wheeled  round  facing  her — and,  imagine  my 
amazement,  I  recognised  him  as  Punin ! 

Yes,  it  was  he ;  there  were  his  inflamed 
eyes,  his  full  lips,  his  soft,  overhanging  nose. 
He  had,  in  fact,  changed  little  during  the  last 
seven  years  ;  his  face  was  a  little  flabbier,  per- 
haps. 

*  Nikander  Vavilitch  ! '  I  cried.  *  Don't  you 
know  me  ? '  Punin  started,  opened  his  mouth, 
stared  at  me.  .  .  . 

*  I  haven't  the  honour,*  he  was  beginning — 
and  all  at  once  he  piped  out  shrilly :  *  The  little 
master  of  TroYtsky  (my  grandmother's  pro- 
perty was  called  Trortsky) !  Can  it  be  the 
little  master  of  Troftsky  ?  ' 

The  pound  of  raisins  tumbled  out  of  his 
hands. 

*  It  really  is,'  I  answered,  and,  picking  up 
Punin's  purchase  from  the  ground,  I  kissed 
him. 

He  was  breathless  with  delight  and  excite- 
"5 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

ment ;  he  almost  cried,  removed  his  cap — 
which  enabled  me  to  satisfy  myself  that  the 
last  traces  of  hair  had  vanished  from  his  'egg* 
— took  a  handkerchief  out  of  it,  blew  his  nose, 
poked  the  cap  into  his  bosom  with  the  raisins, 
put  it  on  again,  again  dropped  the  raisins.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know  how  Musa  was  behaving  all  this 
time,  I  tried  not  to  look  at  her.  I  don't 
imagine  Punin's  agitation  proceeded  from  any 
extreme  attachment  to  my  person  ;  it  was 
simply  that  his  nature  could  not  stand  the 
slightest  unexpected  shock.  The  nervous 
excitability  of  these  poor  devils ! 

*  Come  and  see  us,  my  dear  boy,'  he  faltered 
at  last ; '  you  won't  be  too  proud  to  visit  our 
humble  nest  ?     You  're  a  student,  I  see  .  .  .' 

*0n  the  contrary,  I  shall  be  delighted, 
really.' 

*  Are  you  independent  now  ?  * 
'  Perfectly  independent.' 

*  That 's  capital !  How  pleased  Paramon 
Semyonitch  will  be!  To-day  he'll  be  home 
earlier  than  usual,  and  madame  lets  her,  too, 
off  for  Saturdays.  But,  stop,  excuse  me,  I  am 
quite  forgetting  myself.  Of  course,  you  don't 
know  our  niece  ! ' 

I  hastened  to  slip  in  that  I  had  not  yet  had 
the  pleasure. 

*  Of  course,  of  course !  How  could  you  know 
her !  Musotchka  .  .  .  Take  note,  my  dear  sir, 
this  girl's  name  is  Musa — and  it 's  not  a  nick- 

ii6 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

name,  but  her  real  name.  .  .  .  Isn't  that  a  pre- 
destination? Musotchka,  I  want  to  introduce 
you  to  Mr.  .  .  .  Mr.  ,  .  .' 

*  B./  I  prompted. 

*  B./  he  repeated.  *  Musotchka,  h'sten ! 
You  see  before  you  the  most  excellent,  most 
delightful  of  young  men.  Fate  threw  us  to- 
gether when  he  was  still  in  years  of  boyhood  ! 
I  beg  you  to  look  on  him  as  a  friend  ! ' 

I  swung  off  a  low  bow.  Musa,  red  as  a 
poppy,  flashed  a  look  on  me  from  under  her 
eyelids,  and  dropped  them  immediately. 

*  Ah  ! '  thought  I, '  you  're  one  of  those  who 
in  difficult  moments  don't  turn  pale,  but  red ; 
that  must  be  made  a  note  of.' 

*You  must  be  indulgent,  she's  not  a  fine 
lady,*  observed  Punin,  and  he  went  out  of  the 
shop  into  the  street ;  Musa  and  I  followed  him. 

The  house  in  which  Punin  lodged  was  a  con- 
siderable distance  from  the  Gostinny  Dvor, 
being,  in  fact,  in  Sadovoy  Street.  On  the  way 
my  former  preceptor  in  poetry  had  time  to 
communicate  a  good  many  details  of  his  mode 
of  existence.  Since  the  time  of  our  parting, 
both  he  and  Baburin  had  been  tossed  about  holy 
Russia  pretty  thoroughly,  and  had  not  long — 
only  a  year  and  a  half  before — found  a  per- 
manent home  in  Moscow.  Baburin  had  suc- 
ceeded in  becoming  head-clerk  in  the  office  of 
a  rich  merchant  and  manufacturer,      '  Not  a 

117 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

lucrative  berth/  Punin  observed  with  a  sigh, — 
*a  lot  of  work,  and  not  much  profit  .  .  .  but 
what 's  one  to  do  ?  One  must  be  thankful  to 
get  that !  I,  too,  am  trying  to  earn  something 
by  copying  and  lessons ;  only  my  efforts  have 
so  far  not  been  crowned  with  success.  My 
writing,  you  perhaps  recollect,  is  old-fashioned, 
not  in  accordance  with  the  tastes  of  the  day ; 
and  as  regards  lessons — what  has  been  a  great 
obstacle  is  the  absence  of  befitting  attire ; 
moreover,  I  greatly  fear  that  in  the  matter  of 
instruction — in  the  subject  of  Russian  literature 
— I  am  also  not  in  harmony  with  the  tastes  of 
the  day;  and  so  it  comes  about  that  I  am 
turned  away.'  (Punin  laughed  his  sleepy,  sub- 
dued laugh.  He  had  retained  his  old,  some- 
what high-flown  manner  of  speech,  and  his  old 
weakness  for  falling  into  rhyme.)  *A11  run 
after  novelties,  nothing  but  innovations!  I 
dare  say  you,  too,  do  not  honour  the  old  divini- 
ties, and  fall  down  before  new  idols  ? ' 

*  And  you,  Nikander  Vavilitch,  do  you  really 
still  esteem  Heraskov  ? ' 

Punin  stood  still  and  waved  both  hands 
at  once.  *  In  the  highest  degree,  sir!  in  the 
high  .  .  .  est  de  .  .  .  gree,  I  do ! ' 

'And  you  don't  read  Pushkin?  You  don't 
like  Pushkin  ? ' 

Punin  again  flung  his  hands  up  higher  than 
his  head. 

*  Pushkin  ?     Pushkin  is  the  snake,  lying  hid 

ii8 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

in  the  grass,  who  is  endowed  with  the  note  of 
the  nightingale ! ' 

While  Punin  and  I  talked  like  this,  cautiously 
picking  our  way  over  the  unevenly  laid  brick 
pavement  of  so-called  *  white-stoned '  Moscow 
— in  which  there  is  not  one  stone,  and  which  is 
not  white  at  all — Musa  walked  silently  beside 
us  on  the  side  further  from  me.  In  speaking 
of  her,  I  called  her  *your  niece.'  Punin  was 
silent  for  a  little,  scratched  his  head,  and  in- 
formed me  in  an  undertone  that  he  had  called 
her  so  .  .  .  merely  as  a  manner  of  speaking  ; 
that  she  was  really  no  relation ;  that  she  was 
an  orphan  picked  up  and  cared  for  by  Baburin 
in  the  town  of  Voronezh ;  but  that  he,  Punin, 
might  well  call  her  daughter,  as  he  loved  her 
no  less  than  a  real  daughter.  I  had  no  doubt 
that,  though  Punin  intentionally  dropped 
his  voice,  Musa  could  hear  all  he  said  very 
well ;  and  she  was  at  once  angry,  and  shy,  and 
embarrassed ;  and  the  lights  and  shades  chased 
each  other  over  her  face,  and  everything  in  it 
was  slightly  quivering,  the  eyelids  and  brows 
and  lips  and  narrow  nostrils.  All  this  was 
very  charming,  and  amusing,  and  queer. 

But  at  last  we  reached  the  *  modest  nest' 
And  modest  it  certainly  was,  the  nest.  It 
consisted  of  a  small,  one-storied  house,  that 
seemed  almost  sunk  into  the  ground,  with  a 
slanting  wooden  roof,  and  four  dingy  windows 
119 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

in  the  front.  The  furniture  of  the  rooms  was 
of  the  poorest,  and  not  over  tidy,  indeed. 
Between  the  windows  and  on  the  walls  hung 
about  a  dozen  tiny  wooden  cages  containing 
larks,  canaries,  and  siskins.  '  My  subjects  ! ' 
Punin  pronounced  triumphantly,  pointing  his 
finger  at  them.  We  had  hardly  time  to  get  in 
and  look  about  us,  Punin  had  hardly  sent 
Musa  for  the  samovar,  when  Baburin  himself 
came  in.  He  seemed  to  me  to  have  aged  much 
more  than  Punin,  though  his  step  was  as  firm 
as  ever,  and  the  expression  of  his  face  alto- 
gether was  unchanged  ;  but  he  had  grown  thin 
and  bent,  his  cheeks  were  sunken,  and  his 
thick  black  shock  of  hair  was  sprinkled  with 
grey.  He  did  not  recognise  me,  and  showed 
no  particular  pleasure  when  Punin  mentioned 
my  name ;  he  did  not  even  smile  with  his  eyes, 
he  barely  nodded ;  he  asked — very  carelessly 
and  drily — whether  my  granny  were  living — 
and  that  was  all.  *  I  'm  not  over-delighted  at 
a  visit  from  a  nobleman,'  he  seemed  to  say  ;  *  I 
don't  feel  flattered  by  it'  The  republican  was 
a  republican  still. 

Musa  came  back  ;  a  decrepit  little  old  woman 
followed  her,  bringing  in  a  tarnished  samovar. 
Punin  began  fussing  about,  and  pressing  me  to 
take  things ;  Baburin  sat  down  to  the  table, 
leaned  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  looked  with 
weary  eyes  about  him.  At  tea,  however,  he 
began  to  talk.  He  was  dissatisfied  with  his 
1 20 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

position.  *  A  screw — not  a  man/  so  he  spoke 
of  his  employer  ;  *  people  in  a  subordinate  posi- 
tion are  so  much  dirt  tohim,  of  no  consequence 
whatever;  and  yet  it's  not  so  long  since  he 
was  under  the  yoke  himself.  Nothing  but 
cruelty  and  covetousness.  It 's  a  bondage 
worse  than  the  government's !  And  all  the 
trade  here  rests  on  swindling  and  flourishes  on 
nothing  else ! ' 

Hearing  such  dispiriting  utterances,  Punin 
sighed  expressively,  assented,  shook  his  head 
up  and  down,  and  from  side  to  side ;  Musa 
maintained  a  stubborn  silence.  .  .  .  She  was 
obviously  fretted  by  the  doubt,  what  I  was, 
whether  I  was  a  discreet  person  or  a  gossip. 
And  if  I  were  discreet,  whether  it  was  not 
with  some  afterthought  in  my  mind.  Her 
dark,  swift,  restless  eyes  fairly  flashed  to  and 
fro  under  their  half-drooping  lids.  Only  once 
she  glanced  at  me,  but  so  inquisitively,  so 
searchingly,  almost  viciously  ...  I  positively 
started.  Baburin  scarcely  talked  to  her  at  all ; 
but  whenever  he  did  address  her,  there  was  a 
note  of  austere,  hardly  fatherly,  tenderness  in 
his  voice. 

Punin,  on  the  contrary,  was  continually 
joking  with  Musa ;  she  responded  unwillingly, 
however.  He  called  her  little  snow-maiden, 
little  snowflake. 

•Why  do  you  give  Musa  Pavlovna  such 
names?*  I  asked. 

121 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

Punin  laughed.  *  Because  she's  such  a 
chilly  little  thing.' 

*  Sensible/  put  in  Baburin :  *  as  befits  a 
young  girl.' 

*  We  may  call  her  the  mistress  of  the  house,* 
cried  Punin.  *  Hey  ?  Paramon  Semyonitch  ? ' 
Baburin  frowned ;  Musa  turned  away.  ...  I 
did  not  understand  the  hint  at  the  time. 

So  passed  two  hours  ...  in  no  very  lively 
fashion,  though  Punin  did  his  best  to  *  enter- 
tain the  honourable  company.*  For  instance, 
he  squatted  down  in  front  of  the  cage  of  one 
of  the  canaries,  opened  the  door,  and  com- 
manded :  *0n  the  cupola!  Begin  the  concert ! ' 
The  canary  fluttered  out  at  once,  perched  on 
the  cupola^  that  is  to  say,  on  Punin's  bald  pate, 
and  turning  from  side  to  side,  and  shaking  its 
little  wings,  carolled  with  all  its  might.  During 
the  whole  time  the  concert  lasted,  Punin  kept 
perfectly  still,  only  conducting  with  his  finger, 
and  half  closing  his  eyes.  I  could  not  help 
roaring  with  laughter  .  .  .  but  neither  Baburin 
nor  Musa  laughed. 

Just  as  I  was  leaving,  Baburin  surprised  me 
by  an  unexpected  question.  He  wished  to 
ask  me,  as  a  man  studying  at  the  university, 
what  sort  of  person  Zeno  was,  and  what  were 
my  ideas  about  him. 

*  What  Zeno  ? '  I  asked,  somewhat  puzzled. 
*Zeno,   the   sage   of  antiquity.      Surely   he 

cannot  be  unknown  to  you  ? ' 

122 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

I  vaguely  recalled  the  name  of  Zeno,  as  the 
founder  of  the  school  of  Stoics ;  but  I  knew 
absolutely  nothing  more  about  him. 

*Yes,  he  was  a  philosopher/  I  pronounced, 
at  last. 

*  Zeno,'  Baburin  resumed  in  deliberate  tones, 
*  was  that  wise  man,  who  declared  that  suffer- 
ing was  not  an  evil,  since  fortitude  overcomes 
all  things,  and  that  the  good  in  this  world  is 
one :  justice ;  and  virtue  itself  is  nothing  else 
than  justice.' 

Punin  turned  a  reverent  ear. 

*  A  man  living  here  who  has  picked  up  a  lot 
of  old  books,  told  me  that  saying,'  continued 
Baburin  ;  *  it  pleased  me  much.  But  I  see  you 
are  not  interested  in  such  subjects.' 

Baburin  was  right.  In  such  subjects  I 
certainly  was  not  interested.  Since  I  had 
entered  the  university,  I  had  become  as  much 
of  a  republican  as  Baburin  himself.  Of  Mira- 
beau,  of  Robespierre,  I  would  have  talked  with 
zest.  Robespierre,  indeed  .  .  .  why,  I  had 
hanging  over  my  writing  -  table  the  litho- 
graphed portraits  of  Fouquier  -  Tinville  and 
Chalier  !     But  Zeno !     Why  drag  in  Zeno  ? 

As  he  said  good-bye  to  me,  Punin  insisted 
very  warmly  on  my  visiting  them  next  day, 
Sunday ;  Baburin  did  not  invite  me  at  all, 
and  even  remarked  between  his  teeth,  that 
talking  to  plain  people  of  nondescript  posi- 
tion could  not  give  me  any  great  pleasure, 
123 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

and  would  most  likely  be  disagreeable  to  my 
granny.  At  that  word  I  interrupted  him, 
however,  and  gave  him  to  understand  that 
my  grandmother  had  no  longer  any  authority 
over  me. 

'Why,  you've  not  come  into  possession  of 
the  property,  have  you  ? '  queried  Baburin. 

*  No,  I  haven't,'  I  answered. 

'  Well,  then,  it  follows  .  .  .'  Baburin  did  not 
finish  his  sentence;  but  I  mentally  finished  it 
for  him  :  '  it  follows  that  I  'm  a  boy.' 

*  Good-bye,'  I  said  aloud,  and  I  retired. 

I  was  just  going  out  of  the  courtyard  into 
the  street  .  .  .  Musa  suddenly  ran  out  of  the 
house,  and  slipping  a  piece  of  crumpled  paper 
into  my  hand,  disappeared  at  once.  At  the 
first  lamp-post  I  unfolded  the  paper.  It 
turned  out  to  be  a  note.  With  difficulty  I 
deciphered  the  pale  pencil-marks.  *  For  God's 
sake,'  Musa  had  written,  *  come  to-morrow  after 
matins  to  the  Alexandrovsky  garden  near  the 
Kutafia  tower  I  shall  wait  for  you  don't  refuse 
me  don't  make  me  miserable  I  simply  must 
see  you.'  There  were  no  mistakes  in  spelling 
in  this  note,  but  neither  was  there  any  punctua- 
tion.    I  returned  home  in  perplexity. 

When,  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  the 
appointed  time,  next  day,  I  began  to  get  near 
the  Kutafia  tower  (it  was  early  in  April,  the 
buds  were  swelling,  the   grass   was   growing 

124 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

greener,  and  the  sparrows  were  noisily  chirrup- 
ping  and  quarrelh'ng  in  the  bare  lilac  bushes), 
considerably  to  my  surprise,  I  caught  sight  of 
Musa  a  little  to  one  side,  not  far  from  the 
fence.  She  was  there  before  me.  I  was  going 
towards  her ;  but  she  herself  came  to  meet  me. 

*  Let 's  go  to  the  Kreml  wall,'  she  whispered 
in  a  hurried  voice,  running  her  downcast  eyes 
over  the  ground  ;  *  there  are  people  here/ 

We  went  along  the  path  up  the  hill 

*  Musa  Pavlovna,'  I  was  beginning.  ,  .  ,  But 
she  cut  me  short  at  once. 

'  Please,'  she  began,  speaking  in  the  same 
jerky  and  subdued  voice,  'don't  criticise  me, 
don't  think  any  harm  of  me.  I  wrote  a  letter 
to  you,  I  made  an  appointment  to  meet  you, 
because  ...  I  was  afraid.  ...  It  seemed  to 
me  yesterday, — you  seemed  to  be  laughing 
all  the  time.  Listen,'  she  added,  with  sudden 
energy,  and  she  stopped  short  and  turned 
towards  me :  '  listen  ;  if  you  tell  with  whom 
.  .  .  if  you  mention  at  whose  room  you  met 
me,  I  '11  throw  myself  in  the  water,  I  '11  drown 
myself,  I  '11  make  an  end  of  myself ! ' 

At  this  point,  for  the  first  time,  she  glanced 
at  me  with  the  inquisitive,  piercing  look  I  had 
seen  before. 

*  Why,  she,  perhaps,  really  .  .  .  would  do  it,' 
was  my  thought. 

'Really,  Musa  Pavlovna,'  I  protested, 
hurriedly :    *  how  can   you   have   such  a  bad 

125 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

Opinion  of  me  ?  Do  you  suppose  I  am 
capable  of  betraying  my  friend  and  injuring 
you?  Besides,  come  to  that,  there's  nothing 
in  your  relations,  as  far  as  I  'm  aware,  deserv- 
ing of  censure.  .  .  .  For  goodness'  sake,  be 
calm.* 

Musa  heard  me  out,  without  stirring  from 
the  spot,  or  looking  at  me  again. 

*  There 's  something  else  I  ought  to  tell  you,' 
she  began,  moving  forward  again  along  the 
path,  *  or  else  you  may  think  I  'm  quite  mad  ! 
I  ought  to  tell  you,  that  old  man  wants  to 
marry  me !  * 

*What  old  man?     The  bald  one?     Punin?* 
*No  —  not  he  I      The  other  .  .  .  Paramon 
Semyonitch.' 
*Baburin?' 
'Yes.' 

*  Is  it  possible  ?     Has  he  made  you  an  offer  ? 
*Yes.' 

'  But  you  didn't  consent,  of  course  ? ' 

*Yes,  I  did  consent  .  .  .  because   I   didn't 

understand  what  I  was  about  then.     Now  it 's 

a  different  matter.' 

I  flung  up  my  hands.     *  Baburin — and  you  ! 

Why,  he  must  be  fifty ! ' 

*  He  says  forty-three.  But  that  makes  no 
difference.  If  he  were  five  -  and  -  twenty  I 
wouldn't  marry  him.  Much  happiness  I 
should  find  in  it  I  A  whole  week  will  go 
by    without    his    smiling    once  !       Paramon 

126 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

Semyonitch  is  my  benefactor,  I  am  deeply 
indebted  to  him  ;  he  took  care  of  me,  educated 
me;  I  should  have  been  utterly  lost  but  for 
him ;  I  'm  bound  to  look  on  him  as  a  father. 
.  .  .  But  be  his  wife!  I'd  rather  die!  I'd 
rather  be  in  my  coffin  I ' 

*  Why  do  you  keep  talking  about  death, 
Musa  Pavlovna?* 

Musa  stopped  again. 

'Why,  is  life  so  sweet,  then?  Even  your 
friend  Vladimir  Nikolaitch,  I  may  say,  I  've 
come  to  love  from  being  wretched  and  dull : 
and  then  Paramon  Semyonitch  with  his  offers 
of  marriage.  .  .  .  Punin,  though  he  bores 
me  with  his  verses,  he  doesn't  scare  me,  any- 
way ;  he  doesn't  make  me  read  Karamzin  in 
the  evenings,  when  my  head 's  ready  to  drop 
off  my  shoulders  for  weariness !  And  what 
are  these  old  men  to  me  ?  They  call  me  cold, 
too.  With  them,  is  it  likely  I  should  be  warm  ? 
If  they  try  to  make  me — I  shall  go.  Paramon 
Semyonitch  himself 's  always  saying:  Freedom! 
freedom !  All  right,  I  want  freedom  too.  Or 
else  it  comes  to  this  !  Freedom  for  every  one 
else,  and  keeping  me  in  a  cage !  I  '11  tell  him 
so  myself.  But  if  you  betray  me,  or  drop  a 
hint — remember  ;  they  '11  never  set  eyes  on  me 
again  I ' 

Musa  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  path. 

'  They  '11  never  set  eyes  on  me  again ! '  she 
repeated  sharply.  This  time,  too,  she  did  not 
127 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

raise  her  eyes  to  me ;  she  seemed  to  be  aware 
that  she  would  infallibly  betray  herself,  would 
show  what  was  in  her  heart,  if  any  one  looked 
her  straight  in  the  face.  .  .  .  And  that  was  just 
why  she  did  not  lift  her  eyes,  except  when  she 
was  angry  or  annoyed,  and  then  she  stared 
straight  at  the  person  she  was  speaking  to.  .  .  . 
But  her  small  pretty  face  was  aglow  with  in- 
domitable resolution. 

*Why,  Tarhov  was  right,'  flashed  through 
my  head  ;  '  this  girl  is  a  new  type.' 

'You've  no  need  to  be  afraid  of  me,'  I 
declared,  at  last. 

*  Truly  ?  Even,  if  .  .  .  You  said  something 
about  our  relations.  .  .  .  But  even  if  there 
were  .  .  .'  she  broke  off. 

'  Even  in  that  case,  you  would  have  no  need 
to  be  afraid,  Musa  Pavlovna.  I  am  not  your 
judge.  Your  secret  is  buried  here.'  I  pointed 
to  my  bosom.  *  Believe  me,  I  know  how  to 
appreciate  ,  .  .' 

*Have  you  got  my  letter?'  Musa  asked 
suddenly. 

*  Yes.' 
'Where?' 

*  In  my  pocket' 

*  Give  it  here  .  .  .  quick,  quick  ! ' 

I  got  out  the  scrap  of  paper.   Musa  snatched 

it  in  her  rough  little  hand,  stood  still  a  moment 

facing  me,  as  though  she  were  going  to  thank 

me;  but  suddenly  started,  looked  round,  and 

128 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

Without  even  a  word  at  parting,  ran  quickly 
down  the  hill. 

I  looked  in  the  direction  she  had  taken. 
At  no  great  distance  from  the  tower  I  dis- 
cerned, wrapped  in  an  *  Almaviva '  ('  Almavivas ' 
were  then  in  the  height  of  fashion),  a  figure 
which  I  recognised  at  once  as  Tarhov. 

*  Aha,  my  boy,'  thought  I,  '  you  must  have 
had  notice,  then,  since  you  're  on  the  look-out.' 

And  whistling  to  myself,  I  started  homewards. 

Next  morning  I  had  only  just  drunk  my 
morning  tea,  when  Punin  made  his  appearance. 
He  came  into  my  room  with  rather  an  em- 
barrassed face,  and  began  making  bows,  looking 
about  him,  and  apologising  for  his  intrusion, 
as  he  called  it.  I  made  haste  to  reassure  him. 
I,  sinful  man,  imagined  that  Punin  had  come 
with  the  intention  of  borrowing  money.  But 
he  confined  himself  to  asking  for  a  glass  of  tea 
with  rum  in  it,  as,  luckily,  the  samovar  had  not 
been  cleared  away.  *  It 's  with  some  trepida- 
tion and  sinking  of  heart  that  I  have  come  to 
see  you,'  he  said,  as  he  nibbled  a  lump  of 
sugar.  *You  I  do  not  fear;  but  I  stand  in 
awe  of  your  honoured  grandmother !  I  am 
abashed  too  by  my  attire,  as  I  have  already 
communicated  to  you.'  Punin  passed  his  finger 
along  the  frayed  edge  of  his  ancient  coat.  *  At 
home  it's  no  matter,  and  in  the  street,  too,  it's 
no  harm  ;  but  when  one  finds  one's  self  in  gilded 
I  129 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

palaces,  one's  poverty  stares  one  in  the  face, 
and  one  feels  confused !  *  I  occupied  two 
small  rooms  on  the  ground  floor,  and  certainly 
it  would  never  have  entered  any  one's  head  to 
call  them  palaces,  still  less  gilded  ;  but  Punin 
apparently  was  referring  to  the  whole  of  my 
grandmother's  house,  though  that  too  was  by 
no  means  conspicuously  sumptuous.  He  re- 
proached me  for  not  having  been  to  see  them 
the  previous  day  ;  *  Paramon  Semyonitch,'  said 
he,  *  expected  you,  though  he  did  declare  that 
you  would  be  sure  not  to  come.  And  Musotchka, 
too,  expected  you.' 

'What?     Musa  Pavlovna  too?'  I  queried. 

*  She  too.  She 's  a  charming  girl  we  have 
got  with  us,  isn't  she  ?     What  do  you  say  ? ' 

'  Very  charming,'  I  assented. 
Punin   rubbed    his    bare    head   with  extra- 
ordinary rapidity. 

*  She 's  a  beauty,  sir,  a  pearl  or  even  a 
diamond — it's  the  truth  I  am  telling  you.' 
He  bent  down  quite  to  my  ear.  *  Noble  blood, 
too,'  he  whispered  to  me,  *  only — you  under- 
stand— left  -  handed  ;  the  forbidden  fruit  was 
eaten.  Well,  the  parents  died,  the  relations 
would  do  nothing  for  her,  and  flung  her  to  the 
hazards  of  destiny,  that 's  to  say,  despair,  dying 
of  hunger !  But  at  that  point  Paramon  Semyon- 
itch  steps  forward,  known  as  a  deliverer  from 
of  old  !  He  took  her,  clothed  her  and  cared  for 
her, brought  up  the  poor  nestling;  and  she  has 

130 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

blossomed  into  our  darling  I  I  tell  you,  a  man 
of  the  rarest  qualities  ! ' 

Punin  subsided  against  the  back  of  the  arm- 
chair, lifted  his  hands,  and  again  bending 
forward,  began  whispering  again,  but  still  more 
mysteriously :  *  You  see  Paramon  Semyonitch 
himself  too.  .  .  .  Didn't  you  know?  he  too  is 
of  exalted  extraction — and  on  the  left  side, 
too.  They  do  say — his  father  was  a  powerful 
Georgian  prince,  of  the  line  of  King  David.  .  .  . 
What  do  you  make  of  that  ?  A  few  words — 
but  how  much  is  said?  The  blood  of  King 
David!  What  do  you  think  of  that?  And 
according  to  other  accounts,  the  founder  of  the 
family  of  Paramon  Semyonitch  was  an  Indian 
Shah,  Babur.  Blue  blood !  That 's  fine  too, 
isn't  it?     Eh?' 

*  Well?'  I  queried,  *and  was  he  too,  Baburin, 
flung  to  the  hazards  of  destiny  ? ' 

Punin  rubbed  his  pate  again.  *To  be  sure 
he  was !  And  with  even  greater  cruelty  than 
our  little  lady  !  From  his  earliest  childhood 
nothing  but  struggling!  And,  in  fact,  I  will 
confess  that,  inspired  by  Ruban,  I  composed 
in  allusion  to  this  fact  a  stanza  for  the  portrait 
of  Paramon  Semyonitch.  Wait  a  bit  .  .  ,  how 
was  it  ?     Yes  I 

*  E'en  from  the  cradle  fate's  remorseless  blows 
Baburin  drove  towards  the  abyss  of  woes  ! 
But  as  in  darkness  gleams  the  light,  so  now 
The  conqueror's  laurel  wreathes  his  noble  brow  ! ' 
131 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

Punin  delivered  these  lines  in  a  rhythmic, 
sing-song  voice,  with  full  rounded  vowels,  as 
verses  should  be  read. 

*  So  that 's  how  it  is  he 's  a  republican ! '  I 
exclaimed. 

'  No,  that 's  not  why,'  Punin  answered  simply. 
'  He  forgave  his  father  long  ago  ;  but  he  cannot 
endure  injustice  of  any  sort ;  it 's  the  sorrows 
of  others  that  trouble  him  ! ' 

I  wanted  to  turn  the  conversation  on  what 
I  had  learned  from  Musa  the  day  before,  that  is 
to  say,  on  Baburin's  matrimonial  project, — but 
I  did  not  know  how  to  proceed.  Punin  himself 
got  me  out  of  the  difficulty. 

*  Did  you  notice  nothing  ? '  he  asked  me 
suddenly,  slily  screwing  up  his  eyes,  'while 
you  were  with  us  ?  nothing  special  ? ' 

'  Why,  was  there  anything  to  notice  ? '  I 
asked  in  my  turn. 

Punin  looked  over  his  shoulder,  as  though 
anxious  to  satisfy  himself  that  no  one  was  listen- 
ing. *  Our  little  beauty,  Musotchka,  is  shortly 
to  be  a  married  lady ! ' 

*  How  so  ? ' 

*  Madame  Baburin,*  Punin  announced  with 
an  effort,  and  slapping  his  knees  several  times 
with  his  open  hands,  he  nodded  his  head,  like 
a  china  mandarin. 

*  Impossible ! '  I  cried,  with  assumed  astonish- 
ment. 

Punin's  head  slowly  came  to  rest,  and  his 
132 


t>UNIN   AND  BABURIN 

hands  dropped  down.    *  Why  impossible,  allow 
me  to  ask  ? ' 

*  Because  Paramon  Semyonitch  is  more  fit 
to  be  your  young  lady's  father ;  because  such 
a  difference  in  age  excludes  all  likelihood  of 
love — on  the  girl's  side.' 

*  Excludes  ? '  Punin  repeated  excitedly.  *  But 
what  about  gratitude  ?  and  pure  affection  ?  and 
tenderness  of  feeling ?  Excludes!  You  must 
consider  this  :  admitting  that  Musa's  a  splen- 
did girl ;  but  then  to  gain  Paramon  Semyon- 
itch's  affection,  to  be  his  comfort,  his  prop — 
his  spouse,  in  short!  is  that  not  the  loftiest 
possible  happiness  even  for  such  a  girl?  And 
she  realises  it !  You  should  look,  turn  an 
attentive  eye  !  In  Paramon  Semyonitch's  pre- 
sence Musotchka  is  all  veneration,  all  tremor 
and  enthusiasm  ! ' 

*  That's  just  what's  wrong,  Nikander  Vavi- 
Htch,  that  she  is,  as  you  say,  all  tremor.  If 
you  love  any  one  you  don't  feel  tremors  in 
their  presence.' 

'But  with  that  I  can't  agree!  Here  am  I, 
for  instance;  no  one,  I  suppose,  could  love 
Paramon  Semyonitch  more  than  I,  but  I  .  .  . 
tremble  before  him.' 

*  Oh,  you — that 's  a  different  matter.' 
*How  is  it  a  different  matter?  how?  how?' 

interrupted  Punin.      I   simply  did  not   know 

him  ;   he  got  hot,  and  serious,  almost  angry, 

and  quite  dropped  his  rhythmic  sing-song  in 

133 


PUNiN   ANt)  BABURIN 

speaking.  *  No,'  he  declared;  *I  notice  that 
you  have  not  a  good  eye  for  character !  No  ; 
you  can't  read  people's  hearts!'  I  gave  up 
contradicting  him  .  .  .  and  to  give  another 
turn  to  the  conversation,  proposed,  for  the  sake 
of  old  times,  that  we  should  read  something 
together. 

Punin  was  silent  for  a  while. 

*  One  of  the  old  poets  ?  The  real  ones  ?  '  he 
asked  at  last. 

*  No ;  a  new  one.' 

*  A  new  one  ? '  Punin  repeated  mistrustfully. 

*  Pushkin,'  I  answered.  I  suddenly  thought 
of  the  Gypsies^  which  Tarhov  had  mentioned 
not  long  before.  There,  by  the  way,  is  the 
ballad  about  the  old  husband.  Punin  grumbled 
a  little,  but  I  sat  him  down  on  the  sofa,  so  that 
he  could  listen  more  comfortably,  and  began 
to  read  Pushkin's  poem.  The  passage  came 
at  last,  *  old  husband,  cruel  husband ' ;  Punin 
heard  the  ballad  through  to  the  end,  and  all 
at  once  he  got  up  impulsively. 

*  I  can't,'  he  pronounced,  with  an  intense 
emotion,  which  impressed  even  me; — 'excuse 
me  ;  I  cannot  hear  more  of  that  author.  He 
is  an  immoral  slanderer ;  he  is  a  liar  ...  he 
upsets  me.  I  cannot !  Permit  me  to  cut  short 
my  visit  to-day.' 

I  began  trying  to  persuade  Punin  to  remain  ; 
but  he  insisted  on  having  his  own  way  with  a 
sort  of  stupid,  scared  obstinacy :  he  repeated 
134 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

several  times  that  he  felt  upset,  and  wished  to 
get  a  breath  of  fresh  air — and  all  the  while  his 
lips  were  faintly  quivering  and  his  eyes  avoided 
mine,  as  though  I  had  wounded  him.  So  he 
went  away.  A  little  while  after,  I  too  went 
out  of  the  house  and  set  off  to  see  Tarhov. 

Without  inquiring  of  any  one,  with  a  student's 
usual  lack  of  ceremony,  I  walked  straight  into 
his  lodgings.  In  the  first  room  there  was  no 
one.  I  called  Tarhov  by  name,  and  receiving 
no  answer,  was  just  going  to  retreat ;  but  the 
door  of  the  adjoining  room  opened,  and  my 
friend  appeared.  He  looked  at  me  rather 
queerly,  and  shook  hands  without  speaking. 
I  had  come  to  him  to  repeat  all  I  had  heard 
from  Punin ;  and  though  I  felt  at  once  that 
I  had  called  on  Tarhov  at  the  wrong  moment, 
still,  after  talking  a  little  about  extraneous 
matters,  I  ended  by  informing  him  of  Baburin's 
intentions  in  regard  to  Musa.  This  piece  of 
news  did  not,  apparently,  surprise  him  much ; 
he  quietly  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  fixing 
his  eyes  intently  upon  me,  and  keeping  silent 
as  before,  gave  to  his  features  an  expression 
...  an  expression,  as  though  he  would  say : 
'  Well,  what  more  have  you  to  tell  ?  Come,  out 
with  your  ideas ! '  I  looked  more  attentively 
into  his  face.  ...  It  struck  me  as  eager,  a  little 
ironical,  a  little  arrogant  even.  But  that  did 
not  hinder  me  from  bringing  out  my  ideas. 
I3S 


PUNIN  AND  BABURlN 

On  the  contrary.  '  You  're  showing  off,'  was 
my  thought ;  '  so  I  am  not  going  to  spare  you!' 
And  there  and  then  I  proceeded  straightway 
to  enlarge  upon  the  mischief  of  yielding  to 
impulsive  feelings,  upon  the  duty  of  every  man 
to  respect  the  freedom  and  personal  life  of 
another  man — in  short,  I  proceeded  to  enunciate 
useful  and  appropriate  counsel.  Holding  forth 
in  this  manner,  I  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  to  be  more  at  ease.  Tarhov  did  not 
interrupt  me,  and  did  not  stir  from  his  seat ; 
he  only  played  with  his  fingers  on  his  chin. 

*  I  know,'  said  I  .  .  .  (Exactly  what  was  my 
motive  in  speaking  so,  I  have  no  clear  idea 
myself — envy,  most  likely  ;  it  was  not  devotion 
to  morality,  anyway  !)  *  I  know,'  said  I,  *that 
it 's  no  easy  matter,  no  joking  matter  ;  I  am 
sure  you  love  Musa,  and  that  Musa  loves  you — 
that  it  is  not  a  passing  fancy  on  your  part.  .  ,  . 
But,  see,  let  us  suppose !  (Here  I  folded  my 
arms  on  my  breast.)  .  .  .  Let  us  suppose  you 
gratify  your  passion — what  is  to  follow  ?  You 
won't  marry  her,  you  know.  And  at  the  same 
time  you  are  wrecking  the  happiness  of  an 
excellent,  honest  man,  her  benefactor — and — 
who  knows?  (here  my  face  expressed  at  the 
same  time  penetration  and  sorrow) — possibly 
her  own  happiness  too.  .  .  .' 

And  so  on,  and  so  on  ! 

For  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  my  discourse 
flowed  on.  Tarhov  was  still  silent.  I  began 
136 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

to  be  disconcerted  by  this  silence.  I  glanced 
at  him  from  time  to  time,  not  so  much  to 
satisfy  myself  as  to  the  impression  my  words 
were  making  on  him,  as  to  find  out  why  he 
neither  objected  nor  agreed,  but  sat  like  a  deaf 
mute.  At  last  I  fancied  that  there  was  .  ,  . 
yes,  there  certainly  was  a  change  in  his  face. 
It  began  to  show  signs  of  uneasiness,  agitation, 
painful  agitation.  .  .  .  Yet,  strange  to  say,  the 
eager,  bright,  laughing  something,  which  had 
struck  me  at  my  first  glance  at  Tarhov,  still 
did  not  leave  that  agitated,  that  troubled  face ! 
I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  whether  or  no 
to  congratulate  myself  on  the  success  of  my 
sermon,  when  Tarhov  suddenly  got  up,  and 
pressing  both  my  hands,  said,  speaking  very 
quickly, '  Thank  you,  thank  you.  You  're  right, 
of  course,  .  .  .  though,  on  the  other  side,  one 
might  observe  .  .  .  What  is  your  Baburin  you 
make  so  much  of,  after  all?  An  honest  fool 
— and  nothing  more  !  You  call  him  a  republican 
— and  he 's  simply  a  fool !  Oo !  That 's  what 
he  is !  All  his  republicanism  simply  means 
that  he  can  never  get  on  anywhere ! ' 

*  Ah  !  so  that 's  your  idea !  A  fool !  can 
never  get  on  ! — but  let  me  tell  you,'  I  pursued, 
with  sudden  heat,  '  let  me  tell  you,  my  dear 
Vladimir  Nikolaitch,  that  in  these  days  to  get 
on  nowhere  is  a  sign  of  a  fine,  a  noble  nature ! 
None  but  worthless  people — bad  people — get 
on  anywhere  and  accommodate  themselves  to 
137 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

everything.  You  say  Baburin  is  an  honest 
fool !  Why,  is  it  better,  then,  to  your  mind,  to 
be  dishonest  and  clever?' 

*  You  distort  my  words  ! '  cried  Tarhov.  *  I 
only  wanted  to  explain  how  I  understand  that 
person.  Do  you  think  he  's  such  a  rare  speci- 
men ?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I  Ve  met  other  people 
like  him  in  my  time.  A  man  sits  with  an  air 
of  importance,  silent,  obstinate,  angular.  .  .  . 
0-ho-ho!  say  you.  It  shows  that  there's  a 
great  deal  in  him !  But  there 's  nothing  in 
him,  not  one  idea  in  his  head — nothing  but  a 
sense  of  his  own  dignity.' 

'Even  if  there  is  nothing  else,  that's  an 
honourable  thing,'  I  broke  in.  'But  let  me 
ask  where  you  have  managed  to  study  him 
like  this  ?  You  don't  know  him,  do  you  ?  Or 
are  you  describing  him  .  .  .  from  what  Musa 
tells  you  ? ' 

Tarhov  shrugged  his  shoulders.  *  Musa  and 
I  .  .  .  have  other  things  to  talk  of.  I  tell  you 
what,'  he  added,  his  whole  body  quivering  with 
impatience, — *  I  tell  you  what :  if  Baburin  has 
such  a  noble  and  honest  nature,  how  is  it  he 
doesn't  see  that  Musa  is  not  a  fit  match  for 
him  ?  It 's  one  of  two  things  :  either  he  knows 
that  what  he 's  doing  to  her  is  something  of 
the  nature  of  an  outrage,  all  in  the  name  of 
gratitude  .  . .  and  if  so,  what  about  his  honesty  ? 
— or  he  doesn't  realise  it  .  .  .  and  in  that  case, 
what  can  one  call  him  but  a  fool  ? ' 
138 


PUNIN   and  BABURIN 

I  was  about  to  reply,  but  Tarhov  again 
clutched  my  hands,  and  again  began  talking  in 
a  hurried  voice.  'Though  ...  of  course  .  .  . 
I  confess  you  are  right,  a  thousand  times  right 
.  .  .  You  are  a  true  friend  .  .  .  but  now  leave 
me  alone,  please.' 

I  was  puzzled.     *  Leave  you  alone  ?  * 
*Yes.     I  must,  don't  you  see,  think  over  all 
you've  just  said,  thoroughly.  ...  I  have   no 
doubt   you  are  right  .  .  .  but  now  leave   me 
alone ! ' 

*  You 're  in  such  a  state  of  excitement  .  .  .' 
I  was  beginning. 

'  Excitement  ?  I  ? '  Tarhov  laughed,  but  in- 
stantly pulled  himself  up.  *  Yes,  of  course  I  am. 
How  could  I  help  being  ?  You  say  yourself  it 's 
no  joking  matter.  Yes  ;  I  must  think  about  it 
.  .  .  alone.'  He  was  still  squeezing  my  hands. 
*  Good-bye,  my  dear  fellow,  good-bye ! ' 

*  Good-bye,'  I  repeated.  *  Good-bye,  old  boy  1 ' 
As  I  was  going  away  I  flung  a  last  glance  at 
Tarhov.  He  seemed  pleased.  At  what?  At 
the  fact  that  I,  like  a  true  friend  and  comrade, 
had  pointed  out  the  danger  of  the  way  upon 
which  he  had  set  his  foot — or  that  I  was 
going?  Ideas  of  the  most  diverse  kind  were 
floating  in  my  head  the  whole  day  till  evening 
— till  the  very  instant  when  I  entered  the 
house  occupied  by  Punin  and  Baburin,  for  I 
went  to  see  them  the  same  day.  I  am  bound 
to  confess  that  some  of  Tarhov's  phrases  had 

139 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

sunk  deep  into  my  soul  .  .  .  and  were  ringing 
in  my  ears.  ...  In  truth,  was  it  possible 
Baburin  .  .  .  was  it  possible  he  did  not  see  she 
was  not  a  fit  match  for  him  ? 

But   could   this   possibly  be :    Baburin,  the 
self-sacrificing  Baburin — an  honest  fool ! 

Punin  had  said,  when  he  came  to  see  me, 
that  I  had  been  expected  there  the  day  before. 
That  may  have  been  so,  but  on  this  day,  it 
is  certain,  no  one  expected  me.  ...  I  found 
every  one  at  home,  and  every  one  was  surprised 
at  my  visit.  Baburin  and  Punin  were  both 
unwell :  Punin  had  a  headache,  and  he  was 
lying  curled  up  on  the  sofa,  with  his  head  tied 
up  in  a  spotted  handkerchief,  and  strips  of 
cucumber  applied  to  his  temples.  Baburin  was 
suffering  from  a  bilious  attack ;  all  yellow, 
almost  dusky,  with  dark  rings  round  his  eyes, 
with  scowling  brow  and  unshaven  chin — he  did 
not  look  much  like  a  bridegroom !  I  tried  to 
go  away.  .  .  .  But  they  would  not  let  me  go, 
and  even  made  tea.  I  spent  anything  but  a 
cheerful  evening.  Musa,  it  is  true,  had  no 
ailment,  and  was  less  shy  than  usual  too,  but 
she  was  obviously  vexed,  angry.  ...  At  last 
she  could  not  restrain  herself,  and,  as  she 
handed  me  a  cup  of  tea,  she  whispered 
hurriedly  :  '  You  can  say  what  you  like,  you 
may  try  your  utmost,  you  won't  make  any 
difference.  ...  So  there ! '  I  looked  at  her 
140 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

in  astonishment,  and,  seizing  a  favourable 
moment,  asked  her,  also  in  a  whisper,  '  What 's 
the  meaning  of  your  words  ? '  *  I  '11  tell  you,' 
she  answered,  and  her  black  eyes,  gleaming 
angrily  under  her  frowning  brows,  were  fastened 
for  an  instant  on  my  face,  and  turned  away  at 
once :  *  the  meaning  is  that  I  heard  all  you  said 
there  to-day,  and  thank  you  for  nothing,  and 
things  won't  be  as  you  'd  have  them,  anyway.' 
*  You  were  there,'  broke  from  me  unconsciously. 
.  .  .  But  at  this  point  Baburin's  attention  was 
caught,  and  he  glanced  in  our  direction.  Musa 
walked  away  from  me. 

Ten  minutes  later  she  managed  to  come  near 
me  again.  She  seemed  to  enjoy  saying  bold 
and  dangerous  things  to  me,  and  saying  them 
in  the  presence  of  her  protector,  under  his 
vigilant  eye,  only  exercising  barely  enough 
caution  not  to  arouse  his  suspicions.  It  is  well 
known  that  walking  on  the  brink,  on  the  very 
edge,  of  the  precipice  is  woman's  favourite 
pastime.  '  Yes,  I  was  there,'  whispered  Musa, 
without  any  change  of  countenance,  except 
that  her  nostrils  were  faintly  quivering  and 
her  lips  twitching.  'Yes,  and  if  Paramon 
Semyonitch  asks  me  what  I  am  whispering 
about  with  you,  I  'd  tell  him  this  minute.  What 
do  I  care?' 

*  Be  more  careful,'  I  besought  her.  *  I  really 
believe  they  are  noticing.' 

*  I   tell  you,  I  'm  quite  ready  to  tell  them 

141 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

everything.  And  who's  noticing?  One's 
stretching  his  neck  off  the  pillow,  like  a  sick 
duck,  and  hears  nothing ;  and  the  other 's  deep 
in  philosophy.  Don't  you  be  afraid  ! '  Musa's 
voice  rose  a  little,  and  her  cheeks  gradually 
flushed  a  sort  of  malignant,  dusky  red ;  and 
this  suited  her  marvellously,  and  never  had  she 
been  so  pretty.  As  she  cleared  the  table,  and 
set  the  cups  and  saucers  in  their  places,  she 
moved  swiftly  about  the  room ;  there  was  some- 
thing challenging  about  her  light,  free  and 
easy  movement.  *  You  may  criticise  me  as  you 
like,'  she  seemed  to  say  ;  *  but  I  'm  going  my 
own  way,  and  I  'm  not  afraid  of  you.' 

I  cannot  disguise  the  fact  that  I  found  Musa 
bewitching  just  that  evening.     *  Yes,'  I  mused  ; 

*  she 's  a  little  spitfire — she 's  a  new  type.  .  .  . 
She's — exquisite.  Those  hands  know  how 
to  deal  a  blow,  I  dare  say.  ,  .  .  What  of  it ! 
No  matter ! ' 

*Paramon  Semyonitch,*  she  cried  suddenly, 

*  isn't  a  republic  an  empire  in  which  every  one 
does  as  he  chooses  ?  ' 

'A  republic  is  not  an  empire,'  answered 
Baburin,  raising  his  head,  and  contracting  his 
brows ;  Mt  is  a  .  .  .  form  of  society  in  which 
everything  rests  on  law  and  justice.' 

'  Then,'  Musa  pursued,  *  in  a  republic  no  one 
can  oppress  any  one  else  ? ' 

'No.' 

*  And  every  one  is  free  to  dispose  of  himself? ' 
142 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

•Quite  free/ 

*  Ah  !  that 's  all  I  wanted  to  know.* 

*  Why  do  you  want  to  know  ? ' 

*  Oh,  I  wanted  to — I  wanted  you  to  tell  me 
that/ 

*  Our  young  lady  is  anxious  to  learn/  Punin 
observed  from  the  sofa. 

When  I  went  out  into  the  passage  Musa 
accompanied  me,  not,  of  course,  from  polite- 
ness, but  with  the  same  malicious  intent.  I 
asked  her,  as  I  took  leave,  '  Can  you  really  love 
him  so  much?' 

'Whether  I  love  him,  or  whether  I  don't, 
that 's  my  affair,'  she  answered.  *  What  is  to 
be,  will  be.' 

'  Mind  what  you  're  about ;  don't  play  with 
fire  .  .  .  you  '11  get  burnt.' 

*  Better  be  burnt  than  frozen.  You  .  .  . 
with  your  good  advice !  And  how  can  you 
tell  he  won't  marry  me?  How  do  you 
know  I  so  particularly  want  to  get  married  ? 
If  I  am  ruined  .  ,  .  what  business  is  it  of 
yours  ? ' 

She  slammed  the  door  after  me. 

I  remember  that  on  the  way  home  I  reflected 
with  some  pleasure  that  my  friend  Vladimir 
Tarhov  might  find  things  rather  hot  for  him 
with  his  new  type.  .  .  .  He  ought  to  have  to 
pay  something  for  his  happiness  ! 

That  he  would  be  happy,  I  was — regretfully 
— unable  to  doubt. 

143 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

Three  days  passed  by.  I  was  sitting  in  my 
room  at  my  writing-table,  and  not  so  much 
working  as  getting  myself  ready  for  lunch.  .  .  . 
I  heard  a  rustle,  lifted  my  head,  and  I  was 
stupefied.  Before  me — rigid,  terrible,  white  as 
chalk,  stood  an  apparition  .  .  .  Punin.  His 
half-closed  eyes  were  looking  at  me,  blinking 
slowly ;  they  expressed  a  senseless  terror,  the 
terror  of  a  frightened  hare,  and  his  arms  hung 
at  his  sides  like  sticks. 

*Nikander  Vavilitch!  what  is  the  matter 
with  you?  How  did  you  come  here?  Did 
no  one  see  you  ?  What  has  happened  ?  Do 
speak ! ' 

'She  has  run  away,'  Punin  articulated  in  a 
hoarse,  hardly  audible  voice. 

'  What  do  you  say  ? ' 

*  She  has  run  away,'  he  repeated. 
'Who?' 

*  Musa.  She  went  away  in  the  night,  and 
left  a  note.* 

*  A  note  ? ' 

*  Yes.  "  I  thank  you,"  she  said, "  but  I  am  not 
coming  back  again.  Don't  look  for  me."  We 
ran  up  and  down  ;  we  questioned  the  cook  ; 
she  knew  nothing.  I  can't  speak  loud  ;  you 
must  excuse  me.     I  've  lost  my  voice.' 

*  Musa  Pavlovna  has  left  you  ! '  I  exclaimed. 
•  Nonsense !  Mr.  Baburin  must  be  in  despair. 
What  does  he  intend  to  do  now  ? ' 

*  He  has  no  intention  of  doing  anything.     I 

144 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

wanted  to  run  to  the  Governor-general :  he 
forbade  it.  I  wanted  to  give  information  to 
the  police ;  he  forbade  that  too,  and  got  very 
angry.  He  says,  "  She 's  free."  He  s^.ys,  "  I 
don't  want  to  constrain  her."  He  has  evc;n 
gone  to  work,  to  his  office.  But  he  looks  more 
dead  than  alive.  He  loved  her  terribly.  .  .  . 
Oh,  oh,  we  both  loved  her ! ' 

Here  Punin  for  the  first  time  showed  that  he 
was  not  a  wooden  image,  but  a  live  man  ;  he 
lifted  both  his  fists  in  the  air,  and  brought  them 
down  on  his  pate,  which  shone  like  ivory. 

*  Ungrateful  girl ! '  he  groaned  ;  *  who  was  it 
gave  you  food  and  drink,  clothed  you,  and 
brought  you  up?  who  cared  for  you,  would 
have  given  all  his  life,  all  his  soul  .  .  .  And 
you  have  forgotten  it  all !  To  cast  me  off, 
truly,  were  no  great  matter,  but  Paramon 
Semyonitch,  Paramon  .  .  .' 

I  begged  him  to  sit  down,  to  rest. 

Punin  shook  his  head.  *  No,  I  won't.  I  have 
come  to  you  ...  I  don't  know  what  for.  I  'm 
like  one  distraught ;  to  stay  at  home  alone  is 
fearful ;  what  am  I  to  do  with  myself?  I  stand 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  shut  my  eyes,  and 
call,  "Musa!  Musotchka ! "  That's  the  way 
to  go  out  of  one's  mind.  But  no,  why  am  I 
talking  nonsense  ?  I  know  why  I  have  come 
to  you.  You  know,  the  other  day  you  read  me 
that  thrice-accursed  poem  .  .  .  you  remember, 
where  there  is  talk  of  an  old  husband.  What 
K  I4S 


^UNIN   AND   iBABURIN 

did  you  do  that  for?  Did  you  know  some- 
thing then  .  .  .  or  guessed  something?'  Punin 
glanced  at  me.  '  Piotr  Petrovitch,'  he  cried 
suddenly,  and  he  began  trembling  all  over,  *  you 
know,  perhaps,  where  she  is.  Kind  friend,  tell 
me  whom  she  has  gone  to  ! ' 

I  was  disconcerted,  and  could  not  help 
dropping  my  eyes.  .  .  . 

*  Perhaps  she  said  something  in  her  letter,'  I 
began.  .  .  . 

'She  said  she  was  leaving  us  because  she 
loved  some  one  else !  Dear,  good  friend,  you 
know,  surely,  where  she  is  ?  Save  her,  let  us 
go  to  her ;  we  will  persuade  her.  Only  think 
what  a  man  she's  bringing  to  ruin.' 

Punin  all  at  once  flushed  crimson,  the  blood 
seemed  to  rush  to  his  head,  he  plumped  heavily 
down  on  his  knees.  *  Save  us,  friend,  let  us  go 
to  her.' 

My  servant  appeared  in  the  doorway,  and 
stood  still  in  amazement. 

I  had  no  little  trouble  to  get  Punin  on  to  his 
feet  again,  to  convince  him  that,  even  if  I  did 
suspect  something,  still  it  would  not  do  to  act 
like  that,  on  the  spur  of  the  moment,  especially 
both  together — that  would  only  spoil  all  our 
efforts — that  I  was  ready  to  do  my  best,  but 
would  not  answer  for  anything.  Punin  did  not 
oppose  me,  nor  did  he  indeed  hear  me  ;  he 
only  repeated  from  time  to  time  in  his  broken 
voice,  'Save  her,  save  her  and  Paramon 
146 


PUNIN    AND   BABURIN 

Semyonitch.'  At  last  he  began  to  cry.  *  Tell 
me  at  least  one  thing/  he  asked  .  .  .  *is  ^ 
handsome,  young?* 

*  Yes,  he  is  young,'  I  answered. 

'  He  is  young,'  repeated  Punin,  smearing  the 
tears  over  his  cheeks ;  '  and  she  is  young.  .  ,  . 
It's  from  that  that  all  the  trouble's  sprung  !' 

This  rhyme  came  by  chance ;  poor  Punin 
was  in  no  mood  for  versifying.  I  would  have 
given  a  good  deal  to  hear  his  rhapsodical  elo- 
quence again,  or  even  his  almost  noiseless 
laugh.  .  .  .  Alas  !  his  eloquence  was  quenched 
for  ever,  and  I  never  heard  his  laugh  again. 

I  promised  to  let  him  know,  as  soon  as  I 
should  find  out  anything  positive.  .  .  .  Tarhov's 
name  I  did  not,  however,  mention.  Punin 
suddenly  collapsed  completely.  'Very  good, 
very  good,  sir,  thank  you,'  he  said  with  a  pitiful 
face,  using  the  word  *  sir,'  which  he  had  never 
done  before ;  '  only  mind,  sir,  do  not  say  any- 
thing to  Paramon  Semyonitch  ...  or  he'll  be 
angry.  In  one  word,  he  has  forbidden  it. 
Good-bye,  sir.' 

As  he  got  up  and  turned  his  back  to  me, 
Punin  struck  me  as  such  a  poor  feeble  creature, 
that  I  positively  marvelled ;  he  limped  with 
both  legs,  and  doubled  up  at  each  step.  .  .  . 

'  It 's  a  bad  look-out.  It 's  the  end  of  him, 
that 's  what  it  means,'  I  thought. 

Though  I  had  promised  Punin  to  trace  Musa, 
147 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

yet  as  I  set  off  the  same  day  to  Tarhov's,  I  had 
not  the  slightest  expectation  of  learning  any- 
thing, as  I  considered  it  certain  that  either  I 
should  not  find  him  at  home,  or  that  he  would 
refuse  to  see  me.  My  supposition  turned  out  to 
be  a  mistaken  one.  I  found  Tarhov  at  home ; 
he  received  me,  and  I  found  out  indeed  all  I 
wanted  to  know  ;  but  there  was  nothing  gained 
by  that.  Directly  I  crossed  the  threshold  of 
his  door,  Tarhov  came  resolutely,  rapidly,  to 
meet  me,  and  his  eyes  sparkling  and  glowing, 
his  face  grown  handsomer  and  radiant,  he  said 
firmly  and  briskly  :  *  Listen,  Petya,  my  boy ;  I 
guess  what  you've  come  for,  and  what  you 
want  to  talk  about ;  but  I  give  you  warning,  if 
you  say  a  single  word  about  her,  or  about  her 
action,  or  about  what,  according  to  you,  is  the 
course  dictated  to  me  by  common  sense,  we  're 
friends  no  longer,  we  're  not  even  acquainted, 
and  I  shall  beg  you  to  treat  me  as  a  stranger.' 

I  looked  at  Tarhov ;  he  was  quivering  all 
over  inwardly,  like  a  tightly  drawn  harpstring  ; 
he  was  tingling  all  over,  hardly  could  he  hold 
back  the  tide  of  brimming  youth  and  passion  ; 
violent,  ecstatic  happiness  had  burst  into  his 
soul,  and  had  taken  full  possession  of  him — 
and  he  of  it. 

•  Is  that  your  final  decision  ? '  I  pronounced 
mournfully. 

*  Yes,  Petya,  my  boy,  it 's  final.' 

148 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

*  In  that  case,  there's  nothing  for  me  but  to 
say  good-bye.' 

Tarhov  faintly  dropped  his  eyelids.  .  .  .  He 
was  too  happy  at  that  moment. 

'  Good-bye,  Petya,  old  boy,'  he  said,  a  little 
through  his  nose,  with  a  candid  smile  and  a 
gay  flash  of  all  his  white  teeth. 

What  was  I  to  do  ?  I  left  him  to  his  *  happi- 
ness.' As  I  slammed  the  door  after  me,  the 
other  door  of  the  room  slammed  also — I 
heard  it. 

It  was  with  a  heavy  heart  that  I  trudged  off 
next  day  to  see  my  luckless  acquaintances.  I 
secretly  hoped — such  is  human  weakness — that 
I  should  not  find  them  at  home,  and  again  I 
was  mistaken.  Both  were  at  home.  The 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  them  during 
the  last  three  days  must  have  struck  any  one. 
Punin  looked  ghastly  white  and  flabby.  His 
talkativeness  had  completely  vanished.  He 
spoke  listlessly,  feebly,  still  in  the  same  husky 
voice,  and  looked  somehow  lost  and  bewildered. 
Baburin,  on  the  contrary,  seemed  shrunk  into 
himself,  and  blacker  than  ever ;  taciturn  at  the 
best  of  times,  he  uttered  nothing  now  but  a  few 
abrupt  sounds  ;  an  expression  of  stony  severity 
seemed  to  have  frozen  on  his  countenance. 

I  felt  it  impossible  to  be  silent ;  but  what 
was  there  to  say  ?  I  confined  myself  to  whis- 
pering to  Punin,  *  I  have  discovered  nothing, 
149 


PUNIN    AND   BABURIN 

and  my  advice  to  you  is  to  give  up  all  hope.* 
Punin  glanced  at  me  with  his  swollen,  red  little 
eyes — the  only  red  left  in  his  face — mut- 
tered something  inaudible,  and  hobbled  away. 
Baburin  most  likely  guessed  what  I  had  been 
speaking  about  to  Punin,  and  opening  his  lips, 
which  were  tightly  compressed,  as  though 
glued  together,  he  pronounced,  in  a  deliberate 
voice,  *  My  dear  sir,  since  your  last  visit  to  us, 
something  disagreeable  has  happened  to  us; 
our  young  friend,  Musa  Pavlovna  Vinogradov, 
finding  it  no  longer  convenient  to  live  with  us, 
has  decided  to  leave  us,  and  has  given  us  a 
written  communication  to  that  effect.  Not 
considering  that  we  have  any  right  to  hinder 
her  doing  so,  we  have  left  her  to  act  according 
to  her  own  views  of  what  is  best.  We  trust 
that  she  may  be  happy,'  he  added,  with  some 
effort ;  '  and  I  humbly  beg  you  not  to  allude  to 
the  subject,  as  any  such  references  are  useless, 
and  even  painful.' 

*  So  he  too,  like  Tarhov,  forbids  my  speaking 
of  Musa,'  was  the  thought  that  struck  me,  and 
I  could  not  help  wondering  inwardly.  He 
might  well  prize  Zeno  so  highly.  I  wished  to 
impart  to  him  some  facts  about  that  sage,  but 
my  tongue  would  not  form  the  words,  and  it 
did  well. 

I  soon  went  about  my  business.     At  parting 
neither  Punin  nor  Baburin  said,  *  Till  we  meet  T 
both  with  one  voice  pronounced,  '  Good-bye.' 
150 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

Punin  even  returned  me  a  volume  of  the  Tele- 
graph I  had  brought  him,  as  much  as  to  say,  *  he 
had  no  need  of  anything  of  that  kind  now.' 

A  week  later  I  had  a  curious  encounter.  An 
early  spring  had  set  in  abruptly ;  at  midday 
the  heat  rose  to  eighteen  degrees  Reaumur. 
Everything  was  turning  green,  and  shooting 
up  out  of  the  spongy,  damp  earth.  I  hired  a 
horse  at  the  riding-school,  and  went  out  for  a 
ride  into  the  outskirts  .of  the  town,  towards  the 
Vorobyov  hills.  On  the  road  I  was  met  by  a 
little  cart,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  spirited  ponies, 
splashed  with  mud  up  to  their  ears,  with 
plaited  tails,  and  red  ribbons  in  their  manes  and 
forelocks.  Their  harness  was  such  as  sports- 
men affect,  with  copper  discs  and  tassels  ;  they 
were  being  driven  by  a  smart  young  driver,  in  a 
blue  tunic  without  sleeves,  a  yellow  striped  silk 
shirt,  and  a  low  felt  hat  with  peacock's  feathers 
round  the  crown.  Beside  him  sat  a  girl  of  the 
artisan  or  merchant  class,  in  a  flowered  silk 
jacket,  with  a  big  blue  handkerchief  on  her 
head — and  she  was  simply  bubbling  over  with 
mirth.  The  driver  was  laughing  too.  I  drew 
my  horse  on  one  side,  but  did  not,  however, 
take  particular  notice  of  the  swiftly  passing, 
merry  couple,  when,  all  at  once,  the  young 
man  shouted  to  his  ponies.  .  .  .  Why,  that  was 
Tarhov's  voice  !  I  looked  round.  .  .  .  Yes,  it 
was  he ;  unmistakably  he,  dressed  up  as  a 
peasant,  and  beside  him — wasn't  it  Musa? 
151 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

But  at  that  instant  their  ponies  quickened 
their  pace,  and  they  were  out  of  my  sight  in  a 
minute.  I  tried  to  put  my  horse  into  a  gallop 
in  pursuit  of  them,  but  it  was  an  old  riding- 
school  hack,  that  shambled  from  side  to  side  as 
it  moved  ;  it  went  more  slowly  galloping  than 
trotting. 

*  Enjoy  yourselves,  my  dear  friends  !  *  I  mut- 
tered through  my  teeth. 

I  ought  to  observe  that  I  had  not  seen  Tarhov 
during  the  whole  week,  though  I  had  been 
three  times  to  his  rooms.  He  was  never  at 
home.  Baburin  and  Punin  I  had  not  seen 
either.  ...  I  had  not  been  to  see  them. 

I  caught  cold  on  my  ride ;  though  it  was 
very  warm,  there  was  a  piercing  wind.  I  was 
dangerously  ill,  and  when  I  recovered  I  went 
with  my  grandmother  into  the  country  *  to  feed 
up,'  by  the  doctor's  advice.  I  did  not  get  to 
Moscow  again  ;  in  the  autumn  I  was  transferred 
to  the  Petersburg  university. 


Ill 

1849 

Not  seven,  but  fully  twelve  years  had  passed 
by,  and  I  was  in  my  thirty-second  year.  My 
grandmother  had  long  been  dead  ;  I  was  living 
in  Petersburg,  with  a  post  in  the  Department 
152 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

of  Home  Affairs.  Tarhov  I  had  lost  sight  of ; 
he  had  gone  into  the  army,  and  lived  almost 
always  in  the  provinces.  We  had  met  twice,  as 
old  friends,  glad  to  see  each  other ;  but  we  had 
not  touched  on  the  past  in  our  talk.  At  the 
time  of  our  last  meeting  he  was,  if  I  remember 
right,  already  a  married  man. 

One  sultry  summer  day  I  was  sauntering 
along  Gorohov  Street,  cursing  my  official  duties 
for  keeping  me  in  Petersburg,  and  the  heat  and 
stench  and  dust  of  the  city.  A  funeral  barred 
my  way.  It  consisted  of  a  solitary  car,  that  is, 
to  be  accurate,  of  a  decrepit  hearse,  on  which 
a  poor-looking  wooden  coffin,  half-covered  with 
a  threadbare  black  cloth,  was  shaking  up  and 
down  as  it  was  jolted  violently  over  the  uneven 
pavement.  An  old  man  with  a  white  head  was 
walking  alone  after  the  hearse. 

I  looked  at  him.  .  .  .  His  face  seemed 
familiar.  .  .  .  He  too  turned  his  eyes  upon  me. 
.  .  .  Merciful  heavens !  it  was  Baburin ! 

I  took  off  my  hat,  went  up  to  him,  mentioned 
my  name,  and  walked  along  beside  him. 

'  Whom  are  you  burying  ? '  I  asked. 

*  Nikander  Vavilitch  Punin,'  he  answered. 

I  felt,  I  knew  beforehand,  that  he  would  utter 
that  name,  and  yet  it  set  my  heart  aching.  I 
felt  melancholy,  and  yet  I  was  glad  that  chance 
had  enabled  me  to  pay  my  last  respects  to  my 
old  friend.  .  .  . 

*  May  I  go  with  you,  Paramon  Semyonitch  ?  * 

153 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

*  You  may.  ...  I  was  following  him  alone ; 
now  there  '11  be  two  of  us.' 

Our  walk  lasted  more  than  an  hour.  My 
companion  moved  forward,  without  lifting  his 
eyes  or  opening  his  lips.  He  had  become  quite 
an  old  man  since  I  had  seen  him  last ;  his 
deeply  furrowed,  copper-coloured  face  stood 
out  sharply  against  his  white  hair.  Signs  of  a 
life  of  toil  and  suffering,  of  continual  struggle, 
could  be  seen  in  Baburin's  whole  figure ;  want 
and  poverty  had  worked  cruel  havoc  with  him. 
When  everything  was  over, when  what  was  Punin 
had  disappeared  for  ever  in  the  damp  .  .  ,  yes, 
undoubtedly  damp  earth  of  the  Smolensky 
cemetery,  Baburin,  after  standing  a  couple  of 
minutes  with  bowed,  uncovered  head  before  the 
newly  risen  mound  of  sandy  clay,  turned  to  me 
his  emaciated,  as  it  were  embittered,  face,  his 
dry,  sunken  eyes,  thanked  me  grimly,  and  was 
about  to  move  away ;  but  I  detained  him. 

*  Where  do  you  live,  Paramon  Semyonitch  ? 
Let  me  come  and  see  you.  I  had  no  idea  you 
were  living  in  Petersburg.  We  could  recall  old 
days,  and  talk  of  our  dead  friend.' 

Baburin  did  not  answer  me  at  once. 

'It's  two  years  since  I  found  my  way  to 
Petersburg,'  he  observed  at  last ;  *  I  live  at  the 
very  end  of  the  town.  However,  if  you  really 
care  to  visit  me,  come.'  He  gave  me  his 
address.  *  Come  in  the  evening ;  in  the  even- 
ing we  are  always  at  home  .  .  .  both  of  us.' 
154 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

*  Both  of  you?' 

*  I  am  married.  My  wife  is  not  very  well 
to-day,  and  that 's  why  she  did  not  come  too. 
Though,  indeed,  it's  quite  enough  for  one  person 
to  go  through  this  empty  formality,  this  cere- 
mony.    As  if  anybody  believed  in  it  all ! ' 

I  was  a  little  surprised  at  Baburin's  last 
words,  but  I  said  nothing,  called  a  cab,  and 
proposed  to  Baburin  to  take  him  home ;  but 
he  refused. 

The  same  day  I  went  in  the  evening  to  see 
him.  All  the  way  there  I  was  thinking  of 
Punin.  I  recalled  how  I  had  met  him  the  first 
time,  and  how  ecstatic  and  amusing  he  was  in 
those  days ;  and  afterwards  in  Moscow  how 
subdued  he  had  grown — especially  the  last 
time  I  saw  him  ;  and  now  he  had  made  his 
last  reckoning  with  life  ; — life  is  in  grim  earnest, 
it  seems  !  Baburin  was  living  in  the  Viborgsky 
quarter,  in  a  little  house  which  reminded  me 
of  the  Moscow  '  nest ' :  the  Petersburg  abode 
was  almost  shabbier  in  appearance.  When  I 
went  into  his  room  he  was  sitting  on  a  chair  in 
a  corner  with  his  hands  on  his  knees  ;  a  tallow 
candle,  burning  low,  dimly  lighted  up  his 
bowed,  white  head.  He  heard  the  sound  of  my 
footsteps,  started  up,  and  welcomed  me  more 
warmly  than  I  had  expected.  A  few  moments 
later  his  wife  came  in ;  I  recognised  her  at 
once  as  Musa — and  only  then  understood  why 
155 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

Baburin  had  invited  me  to  come  ;  he  wanted 
to  show  me  that  he  had  after  all  come  by  his 
own. 

Musa  was  greatly  changed — in  face,  in  voice, 
and  in  manners ;  but  her  eyes  were  changed 
most  of  all.  In  old  times  they  had  darted 
about  like  live  creatures,  those  malicious,  beau- 
tiful eyes;  they  had  gleamed  stealthily,  but 
brilliantly  ;  their  glance  had  pierced,  like  a 
pin-prick.  .  .  .  Now  they  looked  at  one  directly, 
calmly,  steadily  ;  their  black  centres  had  lost 
their  lustre.  '  I  am  broken  in,  I  am  tame,  I 
am  good/  her  soft  and  dull  gaze  seemed  to  say. 
Her  continued,  submissive  smile  told  the  same 
story.  And  her  dress,  too,  was  subdued ;  brown, 
with  little  spots  on  it.  She  came  up  to  me, 
asked  me  whether  I  knew  her.  She  obviously 
felt  no  embarrassment,  and  not  because  she  had 
lost  a  sense  of  shame  or  memory  of  the  past, 
but  simply  because  all  petty  self-consciousness 
had  left  her. 

Musa  talked  a  great  deal  about  Punin, 
talked  in  an  even  voice,  which  too  had  lost  its 
fire.  I  learned  that  of  late  years  he  had  become 
very  feeble,  had  almost  sunk  into  childishness, 
so  much  so  that  he  was  miserable  if  he  had  not 
toys  to  play  with ;  they  persuaded  him,  it  is 
true,  that  he  made  them  out  of  waste  stuff  for 
sale  .  .  .  but  he  really  played  with  them  him- 
self. His  passion  for  poetry,  however,  never 
died  out,  and  he  kept  his  memory  for  nothing 
1 56 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

but  verses ;  a  few  days  before  his  death  he 
recited  a  passage  from  the  Rossiad]  but 
Pushkin  he  feared,  as  children  fear  bogies. 
His  devotion  to  Baburin  had  also  remained 
undiminished ;  he  worshipped  him  as  much  as 
ever,  and  even  at  the  last,  wrapped  about  by 
the  chill  and  dark  of  the  end,  he  had  faltered 
with  halting  tongue,  'benefactor!'  I  learned 
also  from  Musa  that  soon  after  the  Moscow 
episode,  it  had  been  Baburln's  fate  once  more 
to  wander  all  over  Russia,  continually  tossed 
from  one  private  situation  to  another ;  that  in 
Petersburg,  too,  he  had  been  again  in  a  situation, 
in  a  private  business,  which  situation  he  had, 
however,  been  obliged  to  leave  a  few  days 
before,  owing  to  some  unpleasantness  with  his 
employer :  Baburin  had  ventured  to  stand  up 
for  the  workpeople.  .  .  .  The  invariable  smile, 
with  which  Musa  accompanied  her  words,  set  me 
musing  mournfully ;  it  put  the  finishing  touch 
to  the  impression  made  on  me  by  her  husband's 
appearance.  They  had  hard  work,  the  two  of 
them,  to  make  a  bare  living — there  was  no  doubt 
of  it.  He  took  very  little  part  in  our  conver- 
sation ;  he  seemed  more  preoccupied  than 
grieved.  .  .  .  Something  was  worrying  him. 

*  Paramon  Semyonitch,  come  here,'  said  the 
cook,  suddenly  appearing  in  the  doorway. 

'What  is  it?  what's  wanted?'  he  asked  in 
alarm. 

*Come  here,'  the  cook  repeated  insistently 
157 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

and  meaningly.  Baburin  buttoned  up  his  coat 
and  went  out. 

WJien  I  was  left  alone  with  Musa,  she  looked 
at  me  with  a  somewhat  changed  glance,  and 
observed  in  a  voice  which  was  also  changed, 
and  with  no  smile :  *  I  don't  know,  Piotr  Petro- 
vitch,  what  you  think  of  me  now,  but  I  dare  say 
you  remember  what  I  used  to  be.  ...  I  was 
self-confident,  light-hearted  .  .  .  and  not  good  ; 
I  wanted  to  live  for  my  own  pleasure.  But  I 
want  to  tell  you  this  :  when  I  was  abandoned, 
and  was  like  one  lost,  and  was  only  waiting 
for  God  to  take  me,  or  to  pluck  up  spirit  to 
make  an  end  of  myself, — once  more,  just  as  in 
Voronezh,  I  met  with  Paramon  Semyonitch — 
and  he  saved  me  once  again.  .  .  .  Not  a  word 
that  could  wound  me  did  I  hear  from  him,  not  a 
word  of  reproach ;  he  asked  nothing  of  me — I 
was  not  worthy  of  that ;  but  he  loved  me  .  .  . 
and  I  became  his  wife.  What  was  I  to  do? 
I  had  failed  of  dying ;  and  I  could  not  live 
either  after  my  own  choice.  .  .  .  What  was  I 
to  do  with  myself?  Even  so — it  was  a  mercy 
to  be  thankful  for.     That  is  all.' 

She  ceased,  turned  away  for  an  instant  ,  .  . 
the  same  submissive  smile  came  back  to  her 
lips.  *  Whether  life 's  easy  for  me,  you  needn't 
ask,'  was  the  meaning  I  fancied  now  in  that 
smile. 

The  conversation  passed  to  ordinary  subjects. 
Musa  told  me  that  Punin  had  left  a  cat  that 
158 


PUNIN   AND   BABURIN 

he  had  been  very  fond  of,  and  that  ever  since 
his  death  she  had  gone  up  to  the  attic  and 
stayed  there,  mewing  incessantly,  as  though  she 
were  calling  some  one  .  .  .  the  neighbours  were 
very  much  scared,  and  fancied  that  it  was 
Punin's  soul  that  had  passed  into  the  cat. 

*  Paramon  Semyonitch  is  worried  about  some- 
thing,' I  said  at  last. 

'Oh,  you  noticed  it?' — Musa  sighed.  *  He 
cannot  help  being  worried.  I  need  hardly  tell 
you  that  Paramon  Semyonitch  has  remained 
faithful  to  his  principles.  .  .  .  The  present 
condition  of  affairs  can  but  strengthen  them.' 
(Musa  expressed  herself  quite  differently  now 
from  in  the  old  days  in  Moscow;  there  was  a 
literary,  bookish  flavour  in  her  phrases.)  *I 
don't  know,  though,  whether  I  can  rely  upon 
you,  and  how  you  will  receive  .  .  .' 

'Why  should  you  imagine  you  carmot  rely 
upon  me  ?  * 

'  Well,  you  are  in  the  government  service — 
you  are  an  official.' 

'Well,  what  of  that?' 

'  You  are,  consequently,  loyal  to  the  govern- 
ment.' 

I  marvelled  inwardly  ...  at  Musa's  inno- 
cence. '  As  to  my  attitude  to  the  government, 
which  is  not  even  aware  of  my  existence,  I 
won't  enlarge  upon  that,'  I  observed  ;  *  but  you 
may  set  your  mind  at  rest.  I  will  make  no 
bad  use  of  your  confidence.  I  sympathise  with 
159 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

your  husband's   ideas    ,    .    .    more  than   you 
suppose.' 

Musa  shook  her  head. 

'  Yes ;  that 's  all  so,'  she  began,  not  without 
hesitation  ;  *  but  you  see  it's  like  this.  Paramon 
Semyonitch's  ideas  will  shortly,  it  may  be,  find 
expression  in  action.  They  can  no  longer  be 
hidden  under  a  bushel.  There  are  comrades 
whom  we  cannot  now  abandon  .  .  .' 

Musa  suddenly  ceased  speaking,  as  though 
she  had  bitten  her  tongue.  Her  last  words 
had  amazed  and  a  little  alarmed  me.  Most 
likely  my  face  showed  what  I  was  feeling — 
and  Musa  noticed  it. 

As  I  have  said  already,  our  interview  took 
place  in  the  year  1849.  Many  people  still 
remember  what  a  disturbed  and  difficult  time 
that  was,  and  by  what  incidents  it  was  signal- 
ised in  St.  Petersburg.  I  had  been  struck 
myself  by  certain  peculiarities  in  Baburin's 
behaviour,  in  his  whole  demeanour.  Twice  he 
had  referred  to  governmental  action,  to  per- 
sonages in  high  authority,  with  such  intense 
bitterness  and  hatred,  with  such  loathing,  that 
I  had  been  dumbfoundered.  .  .  . 

*  Well  ? '  he  asked  me  suddenly :  *  did  you  set 
your  peasants  free  ? ' 

I  was  obliged  to  confess  I  had  not. 

*Why,  I  suppose  your  granny's  dead,  isn't 
she?' 

I  was  obliged  to  admit  that  she  was. 
160 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

'To  be  sure,  you  noble  gentlemen,'  Baburin 
muttered  between  his  teeth,  *.  .  .  use  other 
men's  hands  .  . ,  to  poke  up  your  fire  . . .  that 's 
what  you  like.' 

In  the  most  conspicuous  place  in  his  room 
hung  the  well-known  lithograph  portrait  of 
Belinsky ;  on  the  table  lay  a  volume  of  the 
old  Polar  Star^  edited  by  Bestuzhev. 

A  long  time  passed,  and  Baburin  did  not 
come  back  after  the  cook  had  called  him  away. 
Musa  looked  several  times  uneasily  towards 
the  door  by  which  he  had  gone  out.  At  last 
she  could  bear  it  no  longer ;  she  got  up,  and 
with  an  apology  she  too  went  out  by  the 
same  door.  A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  she 
came  back  with  her  husband  ;  the  faces  of  both, 
so  at  least  I  thought,  looked  troubled.  But  all 
of  a  sudden  Baburin's  face  assumed  a  different, 
an  intensely  bitter,  almost  frenzied  expression. 

*  What  will  be  the  end  of  it  ? '  he  began  all 
at  once  in  a  jerky,  sobbing  voice,  utterly  unlike 
him,  while  his  wild  eyes  shifted  restlessly  about 
him.  *  One  goes  on  living  and  living,  and  hoping 
that  maybe  it  '11  be  better,  that  one  will  breathe 
more  freely ;  but  it 's  quite  the  other  way — 
everything  gets  worse  and  worse  !  They  have 
squeezed  us  right  up  to  the  wall  I  In  my  youth 
I  bore  all  with  patience ;  they  .  .  .  maybe  .  .  . 
beat  me  .  .  .  even  .  .  ,  yes!' he  added, turning 
sharply  round  on  his  heels  and  swooping  down 
as  it  were,  upon  me :  *  I,  a  man  of  full  age,  was 
L  i6i 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

subjected  to  corporal  punishment . . .  yes ; — of 
other  wrongs  I  will  not  speak.  .  .  .  But  is  there 
really  nothing  before  us  but  to  go  back  to  those 
old  times  again?  The  way  they  are  treating 
the  young  people  now !  .  .  .  Yes,  it  breaks  down 
all  endurance  at  last.  ...  It  breaks  it  down ! 
Yes  !     Wait  a  bit ! ' 

I  had  never  seen  Baburin  in  such  a  condition. 
Musa  turned  positively  white.  .  .  .  Baburin  sud- 
denly cleared  his  throat,  and  sank  down  into  a 
seat.  Not  wishing  to  constrain  either  him  or 
Musa  by  my  presence,  I  decided  to  go,  and 
was  just  saying  good-bye  to  them,  when  the 
door  into  the  next  room  suddenly  opened,  and 
a  head  appeared.  ...  It  was  not  the  cook's  head, 
but  the  dishevelled  and  terrified-looking  head 
of  a  young  man. 

'Something's  wrong,  Baburin,  something's 
wrong !  *  he  faltered  hurriedly,  then  vanished 
at  once  on  perceiving  my  unfamiliar  figure. 

Baburin  rushed  after  the  young  man.  I 
pressed  Musa's  hand  warmly,  and  withdrew, 
with  presentiments  of  evil  in  my  heart. 

*  Come  to-morrow,'  she  whispered  anxiously. 

*  I  certainly  will  come,'  I  answered. 

I  was  still  in  bed  next  morning,  when  my 
man  handed  me  a  letter  from  Musa. 

*  Dear  Piotr  Petrovitch  ! '  she  wrote :  *  Para- 
mon  Semyonitch  has  been  this  night  arrested 
by  the  police  and  carried  off  to  the  fortress,  or 

162 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

I  don't  know  where ;  they  did  not  tell  me. 
They  ransacked  all  our  papers,  sealed  up  a 
great  many,  and  took  them  away  with  them. 
It  has  been  the  same  with  our  books  and  letters. 
They  say  a  mass  of  people  have  been  arrested 
in  the  town.  You  can  fancy  how  I  feel.  It  is 
well  Nikander  Vavilitch  did  not  live  to  see  it! 
He  was  taken  just  in  time.  Advise  me  what 
I  am  to  do.  For  myself  I  am  not  afraid — I 
shall  not  die  of  starvation — but  the  thought  of 
Paramon  Semyonitch  gives  me  no  rest.  Come, 
please,  if  only  you  are  not  afraid  to  visit  people 
in  our  position. — Yours  faithfully, 

MusA  Baburin.* 

Half  an  hour  later  I  was  with  Musa.  On 
seeing  me  she  held  out  her  hand,  and,  though 
she  did  not  utter  a  word,  a  look  of  gratitude 
flitted  over  her  face.  She  was  wearing  the 
same  clothes  as  on  the  previous  day;  there 
was  every  sign  that  she  had  not  been  to  bed 
or  slept  all  night.  Her  eyes  were  red,  but  from 
sleeplessness,  not  from  tears.  She  had  not 
been  crying.  She  was  in  no  mood  for  weeping. 
She  wanted  to  act,  wanted  to  struggle  with  the 
calamity  that  had  fallen  upon  them  :  the  old, 
energetic,  self-willed  Musa  had  risen  up  in  her 
again.  She  had  no  time  even  to  be  indignant, 
though  she  was  choking  with  indignation.  How 
to  assist  Baburin,  to  whom  to  appeal  so  as  to 
soften  his  lot — she  could  think  of  nothing  else. 
163 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

She  wanted  to  go  instantly,  ...  to  petition, 
.  .  .  demand.  .  .  .  But  where  to  go,  whom  to 
petition,  what  to  demand — this  was  what  she 
wanted  to  hear  from  me,  this  was  what  she 
wanted  to  consult  me  about. 

I  began  by  counselling  her  ...  to  have 
patience.  For  the  first  moment  there  was 
nothing  left  to  be  done  but  to  wait,  and,  as  far 
as  might  be,  to  make  inquiries  ;  and  to  take  any 
decisive  step  now  when  the  affair  had  scarcely 
begun,  and  hardly  yet  taken  shape,  would  be 
simply  senseless,  irrational.  To  hope  for  any 
success  was  irrational,  even  if  I  had  been  a 
person  of  much  more  importance  and  influence, 
.  .  .  but  what  could  I,  a  petty  official, do?  As 
for  her,  she  was  absolutely  without  any  power- 
ful friends.  .  .  . 

It  was  no  easy  matter  to  make  all  this  plain 
to  her  .  .  .  but  at  last  she  understood  my 
arguments  ;  she  understood,  too,  that  I  was  not 
prompted  by  egoistic  feeling,  when  I  showed 
her  the  uselessness  of  all  efforts. 

*  But  tell  me,  Musa  Pavlovna,'  I  began,  when 
she  sank  at  last  into  a  chair  (till  then  she  had 
been  standing  up,  as  though  on  the  point  of 
setting  off  at  once  to  the  aid  of  Baburin),  '  how 
Paramon  Semyonitch,  at  his  age,  comes  to  be 
mixed  up  in  such  an  affair  ?  I  feel  sure  that 
there  are  none  but  young  people  implicated 
in  it,  like  the  one  who  came  in  yesterday  to 
warn  you.  .  .  .' 

164 


I>UNIN   AND  BABURlN 

*  Those  young  people  are  our  friends ! '  cried 
Musa,  and  her  eyes  flashed  and  darted  as  of 
old.  Something  strong,  irrepressible,  seemed, 
as  it  were,  to  rise  up  from  the  bottom  of  her 
soul,  .  .  .  and  I  suddenly  recalled  the  expres- 
sion *  a  new  type,'  which  Tarhov  had  once  used 
of  her.  *  Years  are  of  no  consequence  when  it 
is  a  matter  of  political  principles  ! '  Musa  laid 
a  special  stress  on  these  last  two  words.  One 
might  fancy  that  in  all  her  sorrow  it  was  not 
unpleasing  to  her  to  show  herself  before  me  in 
this  new,  unlooked-for  character — in  the  charac- 
ter of  a  cultivated  and  mature  woman,  fit  wife 
of  a  republican!  .  .  .  '  Some  old  men  are  younger 
than  some  young  ones,'  she  pursued,  *  more 
capable  of  sacrifice.  .  .  .  But  that's  not  the 
point' 

*  I  think,  Musa  Pavlovna,'  I  observed,  '  that 
you  are  exaggerating  a  little.  Knowing  the 
character  of  Paramon  Semyonitch,  I  should 
have  felt  sure  beforehand  that  he  would  sym- 
pathise with  every  .  .  .  sincere  impulse  ;  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  I  have  always  regarded  him 
as  a  man  of  sense.  .  .  .  Surely  he  cannot  fail 
to  realise  all  the  impracticability,  all  the 
absurdity  of  conspiracies  in  Russia?  In  his 
position,  in  his  calling  .  .  .' 

*  Oh,  of  course,'  Musa  interrupted,  with  bitter- 
ness in  her  voice,  *  he  is  a  working  man  ;  and 
in  Russia  it  is  only  permissible  for  noblemen  to 
take  part  in  conspiracies,  ...  as,  for  instance, 

165 


fUNiN  AND  BABORIN 

in  that  of  the  fourteenth  of  December,  ,  .  , 
that 's  what  you  meant  to  say.* 

'  In  that  case,  what  do  you  complain  of  now?* 
almost  broke  from  my  lips, . .  .  but  I  restrained 
myself.  *  Do  you  consider  that  the  result  of 
the  fourteenth  of  December  was  such  as  to 
encourage  other  such  attempts  ? '  I  said  aloud. 

Musa  frowned,  *  It  is  no  good  talking  to 
you  about  it/  was  what  I  read  in  her  downcast 
face. 

*Is  Paramon  Semyonitch  very  seriously  com- 
promised ? '  I  ventured  to  ask  her.  Musa  made 
no  reply.  ...  A  hungry,  savage  mewing  was 
heard  from  the  attic. 

Musa  started.  *  Ah,  it  is  a  good  thing 
Nikander  Vavilitch  did  not  see  all  this!'  she 
moaned  almost  despairingly.  *  He  did  not  see 
how  violently  in  the  night  they  seized  his  bene- 
factor, our  benefactor — maybe,  the  best  and 
truest  man  in  the  whole  world, — he  did  not  see 
how  they  treated  that  noble  man  at  his  age, 
how  rudely  they  addressed  him,  .  .  .  how  they 
threatened  him,  and  the  threats  they  used  to 
him  ! — only  because  he  was  a  working  man  ! 
That  young  officer,  too,  was  no  doubt  just  such 
an  unprincipled,  heartless  wretch  as  I  have 
known  in  my  life.  .  .  .* 

Musa*s  voice  broke.  She  was  quivering  all 
over  like  a  leaf. 

Her  long-suppressed  indignation  broke  out 
at  last;  old  memories  stirred  up,  brought  to 
x66 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

the  surface  by  the  general  tumult  of  her  soul, 
showed  themselves  alive  within  her.  .  .  .  But 
the  conviction  I  carried  off  at  that  moment 
was  that  the  '  new  type '  was  still  the  same,  still 
the  same  passionate,  impulsive  nature.  . .  .  Only 
the  impulses  by  which  Musa  was  carried  away 
were  not  the  same  as  in  the  days  of  her  youth. 
What  on  my  first  visit  I  had  taken  for  resigna- 
tion, for  meekness,  and  what  really  was  so — 
the  subdued,  lustreless  glance,  the  cold  voice, 
the  quietness  and  simplicity  —  all  that  had 
significance  only  in  relation  to  the  past,  to 
what  would  never  return.  ,  ,  . 

Now  it  was  the  present  asserted  itself. 

I  tried  to  soothe  Musa,  tried  to  put  our  con- 
versation on  a  more  practical  level.  Some  steps 
must  be  taken  that  could  not  be  postponed  ; 
we  must  find  out  exactly  where  Baburin  was ; 
and  then  secure  both  for  him  and  for  Musa  the 
means  of  subsistence.  All  this  presented  no 
inconsiderable  difficulty ;  what  was  needed  was 
not  to  find  money,  but  work,  which  is,  as  we  all 
know,  a  far  more  complicated  problem.  .  .  . 

I  left  Musa  with  a  perfect  swarm  of  reflec- 
tions in  my  head. 

I  soon  learned  that  Baburin  was  in  the 
fortress. 

The  proceedings  began,  .  .  .  dragged  on.     I 

saw  Musa  several  times  every  week.     She  had 

several  interviews  with  her  husband.     But  just 

at  the  moment  of  the  decision  of  the  whole 

167 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

melancholy  affair,  I  was  not  in  Petersburg. 
Unforeseen  business  had  obliged  me  to  set  off 
to  the  south  of  Russia.  During  my  absence  I 
heard  that  Baburin  had  been  acquitted  at  the 
trial ;  it  appeared  that  all  that  could  be  proved 
against  him  was,  that  young  people  regarding 
him  as  a  person  unlikely  to  awaken  suspicion, 
had  sometimes  held  meetings  at  his  house,  and 
he  had  been  present  at  their  meetings  ;  he  was, 
however,  by  administrative  order  sent  into  exile 
in  one  of  the  western  provinces  of  Siberia. 
Musa  went  with  him. 

*  Paramon  Semyonitch  did  not  wish  it,'  she 
wrote  to  me ;  *  as,  according  to  his  ideas,  no 
one  ought  to  sacrifice  self  for  another  person, 
and  not  for  a  cause ;  but  I  told  him  there  was 
no  question  of  sacrifice  at  all.  When  I  said  to 
him  in  Moscow  that  I  would  be  his  wife,  I 
thought  to  myself — for  ever,  indissolubly! 
So  indissoluble  it  must  be  till  the  end  of  our 
days.  .  ,  .' 


IV 

1861 

Twelve  more  years  passed  by.  .  .  .  Every  one 
in  Russia  knows,  and  will  ever  remember,  what 
passed  between  the  years  1849  and  1861.  In 
my  personal  life,  too,  many  changes  took  place, 
168 


PUNIN   AND  BABURIN 

on  which,  however,  there  is  no  need  to  enlarge. 
New  interests  came  into  it,  new  cares.  .  . .  The 
Baburin  couple  first  fell  into  the  background, 
then  passed  out  of  my  mind  altogether.  Yet 
I  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  Musa — at  very 
long  intervals,  however.  Sometimes  more  than 
a  year  passed  without  any  tidings  of  her  or  of 
her  husband.  I  heard  that  soon  after  1855  he 
received  permission  to  return  to  Russia ;  but 
that  he  preferred  to  remain  in  the  little  Siberian 
town,  where  he  had  been  flung  by  destiny,  and 
where  he  had  apparently  made  himself  a  home, 
and  found  a  haven  and  a  sphere  of  activity.  . . . 

And,  lo  and  behold !  towards  the  end  of 
March  in  1861,  I  received  the  following  letter 
from  Musa : — 

*  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  written  to  you, 
most  honoured  Piotr  Petrovitch,  that  I  do 
not  even  know  whether  you  are  still  living ; 
and  if  you  are  living,  have  you  not  forgotten 
our  existence  ?  But  no  matter  ;  I  cannot  resist 
writing  to  you  to-day.  Everything  till  now  has 
gone  on  with  us  in  the  same  old  way :  Paramon 
Semyonitch  and  I  have  been  always  busy  with 
our  schools,  which  are  gradually  making  good 
progress ;  besides  that,  Paramon  Semyonitch 
was  taken  up  with  reading  and  correspondence 
and  his  usual  discussions  with  the  Old-believers, 
members  of  the  clergy,  and  Polish  exiles ;  his 
health  has  been  fairly  good.  ...  So  Has  mine. 
But  yesterday !  the  manifesto  of  the  19th  of 
169 


PUNIN  AND  BABURIN 

February  reached  us !  We  had  long  been  on 
the  look-out  for  it.  Rumours  had  reached  us 
long  before  of  what  was  being  done  among  you 
in  Petersburg,  .  .  .  but  yet  I  can't  describe 
what  it  was  !  You  know  my  husband  well ;  he 
was  not  in  the  least  changed  by  his  misfortune  ; 
on  the  contrary,  he  has  grown  even  stronger 
and  more  energetic,  and  has  a  will  as  strong  as 
iron,  but  at  this  he  could  not  restrain  himself! 
His  hands  shook  as  he  read  it ;  then  he  em- 
braced me  three  times,  and  three  times  he  kissed 
me,  tried  to  say  something— but  no !  he  could 
not!  and  ended  by  bursting  into  tears,  which 
was  very  astounding  to  see,  and  suddenly  he 
shouted, "  Hurrah !  hurrah  !  God  save  the  Tsar!" 
Yes,  Piotr  Petrovitch,  those  were  his  very 
words  !  Then  he  went  on  :  "  Now  lettest  Thou 
Thy  servant  depart "...  and  again  :  "  This  is 
the  first  step,  others  are  bound  to  follow  it " ; 
and,  just  as  he  was,  bareheaded,  ran  to  tell  the 
great  news  to  our  friends.  There  was  a  bitter 
frost,  and  even  a  snowstorm  coming  on.  I  tried 
to  prevent  him,  but  he  would  not  listen  to  me. 
And  when  he  came  home,  he  was  all  covered 
with  snow,  his  hair,  his  face,  and  his  beard — he 
has  a  beard  right  down  to  his  chest  now — and  the 
tears  were  positively  frozen  on  his  cheeks !  But 
he  was  very  lively  and  cheerful,  and  told  me 
to  uncork  a  bottle  of  home-made  champagne, 
and  he  drank  with  our  friends  that  he  had 
brought  back  with  him,  to  the  health  of  the  Tsar 
170 


t>UNIN   AND  BABURIN 

and  of  Russia,  and  all  free  Russians ;  and  tak- 
ing the  glass,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
he  said:  "  Nikander,  Nikander,  do  you  hear? 
There  are  no  slaves  in  Russia  any  more !  Re- 
joice in  the  grave,  old  comrade ! "  And  much 
more  he  said  ;  to  the  effect  that  his  "  expecta- 
tions were  fulfilled  !  "  He  said,  too,  that  now 
there  could  be  no  turning  back ;  that  this  was 
in  its  way  a  pledge  or  promise.  ...  I  don't 
remember  everything,  but  it  is  long  since 
I  have  seen  him  so  happy.  And  so  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  write  to  you,  so  that  you 
might  know  how  we  have  been  rejoicing  and 
exulting  in  the  remote  Siberian  wilds,  so  that 
you  might  rejoice  with  us.  .  .  .' 

This  letter  I  received  at  the  end  of  March. 
At  the  beginning  of  May  another  very  brief 
letter  arrived  from  Musa.  She  informed  me 
that  her  husband,  Paramon  Semyonitch  Baburin, 
had  taken  cold  on  the  very  day  of  the  arrival  of 
the  manifesto,  and  died  on  the  12th  of  April  of 
inflammation  of  the  lungs,  in  the  67th  year  of 
his  age.  She  added  that  she  intended  to  remain 
where  his  body  lay  at  rest,  and  to  go  on  with 
the  work  he  had  bequeathed  her,  since  such  was 
the  last  wish  of  Paramon  Semyonitch,  and  that 
was  her  only  law. 

Since  then  I  have  heard  no  more  of  Musa. 

Paris,  1874. 

171 


OLD    PORTRAITS 

About  thirty  miles  from  our  village  there 
lived,  many  years  ago,  a  distant  cousin  of  my 
mother's,  a  retired  officer  of  the  Guards,  and 
rather  wealthy  landowner,  Alexey  Sergeitch 
Teliegin.  He  lived  on  his  estate  and  birth- 
place, Suhodol,  did  not  go  out  anywhere,  and  so 
did  not  visit  us ;  but  I  used  to  be  sent,  twice  a 
year,  to  pay  him  my  respects — at  first  with  my 
tutor,  but  later  on  alone.  Alexey  Sergeitch 
always  gave  me  a  very  cordial  reception,  and  I 
used  to  stay  three  or  four  days  at  a  time  with 
him.  He  was  an  old  man  even  when  I  first 
made  his  acquaintance  ;  I  was  twelve,  I  remem- 
ber, on  my  first  visit,  and  he  was  then  over 
seventy.  He  was  born  in  the  days  of  the 
Empress  Elisabeth — in  the  last  year  of  her 
reign.  He  lived  alone  with  his  wife,  Malania 
Pavlovna ;  she  was  ten  years  younger  than  he. 
They  had  two  daughters  ;  but  their  daughters 
had  been  long  married,  and  rarely  visited 
Suhodol ;  they  were  not  on  the  best  of  terms 
with  their  parents,  and  Alexey  Sergeitch  hardly 
ever  mentioned  their  names. 
172 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

I  see,  even  now,  the  old-fashioned  house,  a 
typical  manor-house  of  the  steppes.  One 
story  in  height,  with  immense  attics,  it  was 
built  at  the  beginning  of  this  century,  of  amaz- 
ingly thick  beams  of  pine, — such  beams  came 
in  plenty  in  those  days  from  the  Zhizdrinsky 
pine-forests ;  they  have  passed  out  of  memory 
now!  It  was  very  spacious,  and  contained  a 
great  number  of  rooms,  rather  low-pitched  and 
dark,  it  is  true ;  the  windows  in  the  walls  had 
been  made  small  for  the  sake  of  greater 
warmth.  In  the  usual  fashion  (I  ought 
rather  to  say,  in  what  was  then  the  usual 
fashion),  the  offices  and  house-serfs'  huts 
surrounded  the  manorial  house  on  all  sides, 
and  the  garden  was  close  to  it — a  small  garden, 
but  containing  fine  fruit-trees,  juicy  apples, 
and  pipless  pears.  The  flat  steppe  of  rich, 
black  earth  stretched  for  ten  miles  round.  No 
lofty  object  for  the  eye ;  not  a  tree,  nor  even 
a  belfry ;  somewhere,  maybe,  jutting  up,  a 
windmill,  with  rents  in  its  sails ;  truly,  well- 
named  Suhodol,  or  Dry-flat !  Inside  the  house 
the  rooms  were  filled  with  ordinary,  simple 
furniture ;  somewhat  unusual  was  the  milestone- 
post  that  stood  in  the  window  of  the  drawing- 
room,  with  the  following  inscription  : — '  If  you 
walk  sixty-eight  times  round  this  drawing-room 
you  will  have  gone  a  mile ;  if  you  walk  eighty- 
seven  times  from  the  furthest  corner  of  the  par- 
lour to  the  right-hand  corner  of  the  billiard-room, 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

you  will  have  gone  a  mile/  and  so  on.  But  what 
most  of  all  impressed  a  guest  at  the  house  for 
the  first  time  was  the  immense  collection  of  pic- 
tures hanging  on  the  walls,  for  the  most  part 
works  of  the  so-called  Italian  masters  :  all  old- 
fashioned  landscapes  of  a  sort,  or  mythological 
and  religious  subjects.  But  all  these  pictures 
were  very  dark,  and  even  cracked  with  age ; — 
in  one,  all  that  met  the  eye  was  some  patches 
of  flesh-colour ;  in  another,  undulating  red 
draperies  on  an  unseen  body ;  or  an  arch 
which  seemed  to  be  suspended  in  the  air ;  or 
a  dishevelled  tree  with  blue  foliage;  or  the 
bosom  of  a  nymph  with  an  immense  breast,  like 
the  lid  of  a  soup-tureen;  a  cut  water-melon,  with 
black  seeds  ;  a  turban,  with  a  feather  in  it,  above 
a  horse's  head  ;  or  the  gigantic  brown  leg  of  an 
apostle,  suddenly  thrust  out,  with  a  muscular 
calf,  and  toes  turned  upwards.  In  the  drawing- 
room  in  the  place  of  honour  hung  a  portrait  of 
the  Empress  Catherine  II.,  full  length ;  a  copy 
of  the  famous  portrait  by  Lampi — an  object  of 
the  special  reverence,  one  might  say  the  adora- 
tion, of  the  master  of  the  house.  From  the 
ceiling  hung  glass  lustres  in  bronze  settings, 
very  small  and  very  dusty. 

Alexey  Sergeitch  himself  was  a  stumpy, 
paunchy  little  old  man,  with  a  chubby  face  of 
one  uniform  tint, yet  pleasant, with  drawn-in  lips, 
and  very  lively  little  eyes  under  high  eyebrows. 
He  wore  his  scanty  locks  combed  to  the  back  of 
174 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

his  head;  it  was  only  since  1812  that  he  had 
given  up  wearing  powder.  Alexey  Sergeitch 
invariably  wore  a  grey  *  redingote,'  with  three 
capes  falling  over  his  shoulders,  a  striped 
waistcoat,  chamois-leather  breeches,  and  high 
boots  of  dark  red  morocco,  with  heart-shaped 
scallops  and  tassels  at  the  tops  ;  he  wore  a 
white  muslin  cravat,  a  jabot,  lace  cuffs,  and  two 
gold  English  *  turnip  watches,'  one  in  each 
pocket  of  his  waistcoat.  In  his  right  hand  he 
usually  carried  an  enamelled  snuff-box  full  of 
*  Spanish '  snuff,  and  his  left  hand  leaned  on  a 
cane  with  a  silver-chased  knob,  worn  smooth 
by  long  use.  Alexey  Sergeitch  had  a  little 
nasal,  piping  voice,  and  an  invariable  smile — 
kindly,  but,  as  it  were,  condescending,  and  not 
without  a  certain  self-complacent  dignity.  His 
laugh,  too,  was  kindly — a  shrill  little  laugh  that 
tinkled  like  glass  beads.  Courteous  and  affable 
he  was  to  the  last  degree — in  the  old-fashioned 
manner  of  the  days  of  Catherine — and  he  moved 
his  hands  with  slow,  rounded  gestures,  also  in 
the  old  style.  His  legs  were  so  weak  that  he 
could  not  walk,  but  ran  with  hurried  little 
steps  from  one  armchair  to  another,  in  which 
he  would  suddenly  sit  down,  or  rather  fall 
softly,  like  a  cushion. 

As  I   have   said  already,  Alexey  Sergeitch 

went  out  nowhere,  and  saw  very  little  of  his 

neighbours,  though  he  liked  society,  for  he  was 

very  fond  of  talking !     It  is  true  that  he  had 

175 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

society  in  plenty  in  his  own  house ;  various 
Nikanor  Nikanoritchs,  Sevastiey  Sevastietchs, 
Fedulitchs,  Miheitchs,  all  poor  gentlemen  in 
shabby  cossack  coats  and  camisoles,  often  from 
the  master's  wardrobe,  lived  under  his  roof,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  poor  gentlewomen  in  chintz 
gowns,  black  kerchiefs  thrown  over  their 
shoulders,  and  worsted  reticules  in  their  tightly 
clenched  fingers — all  sorts  of  Avdotia  Savishnas, 
Pelagea  Mironovnas,  and  plain  Feklushkas 
and  Arinkas,  who  found  a  home  in  the  women's 
quarters.  Never  less  than  fifteen  persons  sat 
down  to  Alexey  Sergeitch's  table.  .  .  .  He  was 
such  a  hospitable  man !  Among  all  those 
dependants  two  were  particularly  conspicuous  : 
a  dwarf,  nicknamed  Janus,  or  the  Double- 
faced,  of  Danish — or,  as  some  maintained,  Jewish 
— extraction,  and  the  mad  Prince  L.  Contrary 
to  what  was  customary  in  those  days,  the  dwarf 
did  nothing  to  amuse  the  master  or  mistress, 
and  was  not  a  jester  —  quite  the  opposite; 
he  was  always  silent,  had  an  ill-tempered  and 
sullen  appearance,  and  scowled  and  gnashed  his 
teeth  directly  a  question  was  addressed  to  him. 
Alexey  Sergeitch  called  him  a  philosopher,  and 
positively  respected  him  ;  at  table  the  dishes 
were  handed  to  him  first,  after  the  guests  and 
master  and  mistress.  *  God  has  afflicted  him,* 
Alexey  Sergeitch  used  to  say ;  *  such  is  His 
Divine  will ;  but  it 's  not  for  me  to  afflict  him 
further.'  *  How  is  he  a  philosopher  ? '  I  asked 
176 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

him  once.  (Janus  didn't  take  to  me  ;  if  I  went 
near  him  he  would  fly  into  a  rage,  and  mutter 
thickly,  '  Stranger  !  keep  off! ')  *  Eh,  God  bless 
me  !  isn't  he  a  philosopher  ? '  answered  Alexey 
Sergeitch.  *  Look  ye,  little  sir,  how  wisely  he 
holds  his  tongue  ! '  *  But  why  is  he  double- 
faced  ? '  *  Because,  little  sir,  he  has  one  face 
on  the  outside  —  and  so  you,  surface-gazers, 
judge  him.  .  .  .  But  the  other,  the  real  face 
he  hides.  And  that  face  I  know,  and  no  one 
else — and  I  love  him  for  it  .  .  .  because  that 
face  is  good.  You,  for  instance,  look  and  see 
nothing  .  .  .  but  I  see  without  a  word :  he  is 
blaming  me  for  something;  for  he's  a  severe 
critic !  And  it 's  always  with  good  reason. 
That,  little  sir,  you  can't  understand  ;  but  you 
may  believe  an  old  man  like  me ! '  The  real 
history  of  the  two-faced  Janus — where  he  came 
from,  and  how  he  came  into  Alexey  Sergeitch's 
hands — no  one  knew  ;  but  the  story  of  Prince 
L.  was  well  known  to  every  one.  He  went, 
a  lad  of  twenty,  of  a  wealthy  and  distinguished 
family,  to  Petersburg,  to  serve  in  a  regiment  of 
the  Guards.  At  the  first  levee  the  Empress 
Catherine  noticed  him,  stood  still  before  him, 
and,  pointing  at  him  with  her  fan,  she  said 
aloud,  addressing  one  of  her  courtiers,  who 
happened  to  be  near,  'Look,  Adam  Vassilievitch, 
what  a  pretty  fellow !  a  perfect  doll ! '  The 
poor  boy's  head  was  completely  turned ; 
when  he  got  home  he  ordered  his  coach  out, 
M  177 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

and,  putting  on  a  ribbon  of  St.  Anne,  pro- 
ceeded to  drive  all  over  the  town,  as  though  he 
had  reached  the  pinnacle  of  fortune.  *  Drive 
over  every  one,'  he  shouted  to  his  coachman, 
*  who  does  not  move  out  of  the  way  ! '  All  this 
was  promptly  reported  to  the  empress :  the 
decree  went  forth  that  he  should  be  declared 
insane,  and  put  under  the  guardianship  of  two 
of  his  brothers ;  and  they,  without  a  moment's 
delay,  carried  him  off  to  the  country,  and  flung 
him  into  a  stone  cell  in  chains.  As  they 
wanted  to  get  the  benefit  of  his  property,  they 
did  not  let  the  poor  wretch  out,  even  when  he 
had  completely  recovered  his  balance,  and 
positively  kept  him  locked  up  till  he  really  did 
go  out  of  his  mind.  But  their  evil  doings  did 
not  prosper ;  Prince  L.  outlived  his  brothers, 
and,  after  long  years  of  adversity,  he  came 
into  the  charge  of  Alexey  Sergeitch,  whose 
kinsman  he  was.  He  was  a  stout,  completely 
bald  man,  with  a  long,  thin  nose  and  prominent 
blue  eyes.  He  had  quite  forgotten  how  to 
talk — he  simply  uttered  a  sort  of  inarticulate 
grumbling ;  but  he  sang  old-fashioned  Russian 
ballads  beautifully,  preserving  the  silvery  fresh- 
ness of  his  voice  to  extreme  old  age;  and, 
while  he  was  singing,  he  pronounced  each  word 
clearly  and  distinctly.  He  had  attacks  at  times 
of  a  sort  of  fury,  and  then  he  became  terrible : 
he  would  stand  in  the  corner,  with  his  face  to 
the  wall,  and  all  perspiring  and  red — red  all 
178 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

down  his  bald  head  and  down  his  neck — he 
used  to  go  off  into  vicious  chuckles,  and, 
stamping  with  his  feet,  order  some  one — his 
brothers  probably  —  to  be  punished.  'Beat 
'em  ! '  he  growled  hoarsely,  coughing  and  chok- 
ing with  laughter  ;  'flog  'em,  don't  spare  'em  ! 
beat,  beat,  beat  the  monsters,  my  oppressors ! 
That 's  it !  That 's  it ! '  On  the  day  before  his 
death  he  greatly  alarmed  and  astonished 
Alexey  Strgeitch.  He  came,  pale  and  subdued, 
into  his  room,  and,  making  him  a  low  obeisance, 
first  thanked  him  for  his  care  and  kindness,  and 
then  asked  him  to  send  for  a  priest,  for  death 
had  come  to  him — he  had  seen  death,  and  he 
must  forgive  every  one  and  purify  his  soul. 
*How  did  you  see  death?'  muttered  Alexey 
Sergeitch  in  bewilderment  at  hearing  connected 
speech  from  him  for  the  first  time.  *  In  what 
shape  ?  with  a  scythe  ?'  *  No,'  answered  Prince 
L. ;  *  a  simple  old  woman  in  a  jacket,  but 
with  only  one  eye  in  her  forehead,  and  that  eye 
without  an  eyelid.'  And  the  next  day  Prince 
L.  actually  did  die,  duly  performing  every- 
thing, and  taking  leave  of  every  one  in  a 
rational  and  affecting  manner.  'That's  just 
how  I  shall  die,'  Alexey  Sergeitch  would  some- 
times observe.  And,  as  a  fact,  something  of 
the  same  sort  did  happen  with  him — but  of 
that  later. 

But  now  let  us  go  back  to  our  story.     Of  the 
neighbours,  as  I  have  stated  already,  Alexey 
179 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

Sergeitch  saw  little ;  and  they  did  not  care 
much  for  him,  called  him  a  queer  fish,  stuck  up, 
and  a  scoffer,  and  even  a  'martiniste'  who 
recognised  no  authorities,  though  they  had  no 
clear  idea  of  the  meaning  of  this  term.  To 
a  certain  extent  the  neighbours  were  right : 
Alexey  Sergeitch  had  lived  in  his  Suhodol  for 
almost  seventy  years  on  end,  and  had  had 
hardly  anything  whatever  to  do  with  the  exist- 
ing authorities,  with  the  police  or  the  law-courts. 
'  Police-courts  are  for  the  robber,  and  discipline 
for  the  soldier,'  he  used  to  say ;  '  but  I,  thank 
God,  am  neither  robber  nor  soldier ! '  Rather 
queer  Alexey  Sergeitch  certainly  was,  but  the 
soul  within  him  was  by  no  means  a  petty  one. 
I  will  tell  you  something  about  him. 

To  tell  the  truth,  I  never  knew  what  were  his 
political  opinions,  if  an  expression  so  modern 
can  be  used  in  reference  to  him ;  but,  in  his  own 
way,  he  was  an  aristocrat — more  an  aristocrat 
than  a  typical  Russian  country  gentleman. 
More  than  once  he  expressed  his  regret  that 
God  had  not  given  him  a  son  and  heir,  *  for  the 
honour  of  our  name,  to  keep  up  the  family.'  In 
his  own  room  there  hung  on  the  wall  the  family- 
tree  of  the  Teliegins,  with  many  branches,  and 
a  multitude  of  little  circles  like  apples  in  a 
golden  frame.  '  We  Teliegins,'  he  used  to  say, 
*  are  an  ancient  line,  from  long,  long  ago  :  how- 
ever many  there 've  been  of  us  Teliegins,  we 
have  never  hung  about  great  men's  ante-rooms ; 
i8o 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

we  've  never  bent  our  backs,  or  stood  about  in 
waiting,  nor  picked  up  a  living  in  the  courts, 
nor  run  after  decorations ;  we  've  never  gone 
trailing  off  to  Moscow,  nor  intriguing  in  Peters- 
burg ;  we  Ve  sat  at  home,  each  in  his  hole, 
his  own  man  on  his  own  land  .  .  .  home- 
keeping  birds,  sir! — I  myself,  though  I  did 
serve  in  the  Guards — but  not  for  long,  thank 
you.'  Alexey  Sergeitch  preferred  the  old  days. 
*  There  was  more  freedom  in  those  days,  more 
decorum ;  on  my  honour,  I  assure  you !  but 
since  the  year  eighteen  hundred '  (why  from 
that  year,  precisely,  he  did  not  explain),  *  mili- 
tarism, the  soldiery,  have  got  the  upper  hand. 
Our  soldier  gentlemen  stucksome  sort  of  turbans 
of  cocks'  feathers  on  their  heads  then,  and  turned 
like  cocks  themselves ;  began  binding  their  necks 
up  as  stiff  as  could  be  .  .  .  they  croak,  and  roll 
their  eyes — how  could  they  help  it,  indeed? 
The  other  day  a  police  corporal  came  to  me ; 
"  I  Ve  come  to  you,"  says  he,  "  honourable  sir," 
,  .  .  (fancy  his  thinking  to  surprise  me  with 
that !  .  .  .  I  know  I  'm  honourable  without  his 
telling  me !)  "  I  have  business  with  you."  And 
I  said  to  him,  "  My  good  sir,  you  'd  better  first 
unfasten  the  hooks  on  your  collar.  Or  else, 
God  have  mercy  on  us — you'll  sneeze.  Ah, 
what  would  happen  to  you  !  what  would  happen 
to  you  !  You  'd  break  off,  like  a  mushroom  .  .  . 
and  I  should  have  to  answer  for  it ! "  And  they 
do  drink,  these  military  gentlemen — oh,  oh,  oh  I 
i8i 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

I  generally  order  home-made  champagne  to  be 
given  them,  because  to  them,  good  wine  or 
poor,  it 's  all  the  same ;  it  runs  so  smoothly,  so 
quickly,  down  their  throats — how  can  they  dis- 
tinguish it?  And,  another  thing,  they've  started 
sucking  at  a  pap-bottle,  smoking  a  tobacco- 
pipe.  Your  military  gentleman  thrusts  his  pap- 
bottle  under  his  moustaches,  between  his  lips, 
and  puffs  the  smoke  out  of  his  nose,  his  mouth, 
and  even  his  ears — and  fancies  himself  a  hero ! 
There  are  my  sons-in-law — though  one  of 
them 's  a  senator,  and  the  other  some  sort  of  an 
administrator  over  there — they  suck  the  pap- 
bottle,  and  they  reckon  themselves  clever 
fellows  too ! ' 

Alexey  Sergeitch  could  not  endure  smoking ; 
and  moreover,  he  could  not  endure  dogs,  especi- 
ally little  dogs.  *  If  you  're  a  Frenchman,  to 
be  sure,  you  may  well  keep  a  lapdog :  you  run 
and  you  skip  about  here  and  there,  and  it  runs 
after  you  with  its  tail  up  .  .  ,  but  what 's  the 
use  of  it  to  people  like  us  ?  '  He  was  exceed- 
ingly neat  and  particular.  Of  the  Empress 
Catherine  he  never  spoke  but  with  enthusiasm, 
and  in  exalted,  rather  bookish  phraseology : 
*  Half  divine  she  was,  not  human  !  Only  look, 
little  sir,  at  that  smile,'  he  would  add,  pointing 
reverentially  to  Lampi's  portrait,  *and  you 
will  agree :  half  divine !  I  was  so  fortunate  in 
my  life  as  to  be  deemed  worthy  to  behold  that 
smile  close,  and  never  will  it  be  effaced  from 
182 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

my  heart ! '  And  thereupon  he  would  relate 
anecdotes  of  the  life  of  Catherine,  such  as  I 
have  never  happened  to  read  or  hear  elsewhere. 
Here  is  one  of  them.  Alexey  Sergeitch  did 
not  permit  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  weak- 
nesses of  the  great  Tsaritsa.  'And,  besides,* 
he  exclaimed,  '  can  one  judge  of  her  as  of  other 
people  ? ' 

One  day  while  she  was  sitting  in  her  peignoir 
during  her  morning  toilette,  she  commanded 
her  hair  to  be  combed.  .  .  .  And  what  do  you 
think  ?  The  lady-in-waiting  passed  the  comb 
through,  and  sparks  of  electricity  simply 
showered  out !  Then  she  summoned  to  her 
presence  the  court  physician  Rogerson,  who 
happened  to  be  in  waiting  at  the  court,  and 
said  to  him :  *  I  am,  I  know,  censured  for  cer- 
tain actions ;  but  do  you  see  this  electricity  ? 
Consequently,  as  such  is  my  nature  and  con- 
stitution, you  can  judge  for  yourself,  as  you 
are  a  doctor,  that  it  is  unjust  for  them  to 
censure  me,  and  they  ought  to  comprehend 
me ! '  The  following  incident  remained  in- 
delible in  Alexey  Sergeitch's  memory.  He 
was  standing  one  day  on  guard  indoors,  in 
the  palace — he  was  only  sixteen  at  the  time — 
and  behold  the  empress  comes  walking  past 
him ;  he  salutes  ...  *  and  she,'  Alexey  Ser- 
geitch would  exclaim  at  this  point  with  much 
feeling,  'smiling  at  my  youth  and  my  zeal, 
deigned  to  give  me  her  hand  to  kiss  and 
183 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

patted  my  cheek,  and  asked  me  "who  I 
was  ?  where  I  came  from  ?  of  what  family  ?  " 
and  then'  .  .  .  here  the  old  man's  voice 
usually  broke  ...  *  then  she  bade  me  greet  my 
mother  in  her  name  and  thank  her  for  having 
brought  up  her  children  so  well.  And  whether 
I  was  on  earth  or  in  heaven,  and  how  and 
where  she  deigned  to  vanish,  whether  she 
floated  away  into  the  heights  or  went  her  way 
into  the  other  apartments  ...  to  this  day  I 
do  not  know  ! ' 

More  than  once  I  tried  to  question  Alexey 
Sergeitch  about  those  far-away  times,  about 
the  people  who  made  up  the  empress's  circle. 
.  .  .  But  for  the  most  part  he  edged  off  the 
subject.  'What's  the  use  of  talking  about 
old  times?'  he  used  to  say  .  .  .  *it's  only 
making  one's  self  miserable,  remembering  that 
then  one  was  a  fine  young  fellow,  and  now 
one  hasn't  a  tooth  left  in  one's  head.  And 
what  is  there  to  say?  They  were  good  old 
times  .  .  .  but  there,  enough  of  them  !  And  as 
for  those  folks — you  were  asking,  you  trouble- 
some boy,  about  the  lucky  ones ! — haven't  you 
seen  how  a  bubble  comes  up  on  the  water? 
As  long  as  it  lasts  and  is  whole,  what  colours 
play  upon  it !  Red,  and  blue,  and  yellow — a 
perfect  rainbow  or  diamond  you  'd  say  it  was ! 
Only  it  soon  bursts,  and  there  >  no  trace  of 
it  left.     And  so  it  was  with  those  folks.' 

*  But  how  about  Potiomkin  ?  '  I  once  inquired. 
184 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

Alexey  Sergeitch  looked  grave.  *  Potiomkin, 
Grigory  Alexandrovitch,  was  a  statesman,  a 
theologian,  a  pupil  of  Catherine's,  her  cherished 
creation,  one  must  say.  .  .  .  But  enough  of 
that,  little  sir  ! ' 

Alexey  Sergeitch  was  a  very  devout  man, 
and,  though  it  was  a  great  effort,  he  attended 
church  regularly.  Superstition  was  not  notice- 
able in  him;  he  laughed  at  omens,  the  evil 
eye,  and  such  *  nonsense,'  but  he  did  not  like 
a  hare  to  run  across  his  path,  and  to  meet 
a  priest  was  not  altogether  agreeable  to  him. 
For  all  that,  he  was  very  respectful  to  clerical 
persons,  and  went  up  to  receive  their  blessing, 
and  even  kissed  the  priest's  hand  every  time, 
but  he  was  not  willing  to  enter  into  conversa- 
tion with  them.  *Such  an  extremely  strong 
odour  comes  from  them,*  he  explained :  *  and 
I,  poor  sinner,  am  fastidious  beyond  reason ; 
they  've  such  long  hair,  and  all  oily,  and  they 
comb  it  out  on  all  sides — they  think  they  show 
me  respect  by  so  doing,  and  they  clear  their 
throats  so  loudly  when  they  talk — from  shy- 
ness may  be,  or  I  dare  say  they  want  to 
show  respect  in  that  way  too.  And  besides, 
they  make  one  think  of  one's  last  hour.  And, 
I  don't  know  how  it  is,  but  I  still  want  to 
go  on  living.  Only,  my  little  sir,  don't  you 
repeat  my  words ;  we  must  respect  the  clergy 
— it 's  only  fools  that  don't  respect  them  ;  and 
I  'm  to  blame  to  babble  nonsense  in  my  old  age.' 
i8s 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

Alexey  Sergeitch,  like  most  of  the  noblemen 
of  his  day,  had  received  a  very  slight  educa- 
tion ;  but  he  had,  to  some  extent,  made  good 
the  deficiency  himself  by  reading.  He  read 
none  but  Russian  books  of  the  end  of  last 
century ;  the  more  modern  authors  he  thought 
insipid  and  deficient  in  style.  .  .  .  While  he 
read,  he  had  placed  at  his  side  on  a  round,  one- 
legged  table,  a  silver  tankard  of  frothing  spiced 
kvas  of  a  special  sort,  which  sent  an  agreeable 
fragrance  all  over  the  house.  He  used  to  put 
on  the  end  of  his  nose  a  pair  of  big,  round 
spectacles,  but  in  latter  years  he  did  not  so 
much  read  as  gaze  dreamily  over  the  rims  of 
his  spectacles,  lifting  his  eyebrows,  chewing  his 
lips,  and  sighing.  Once  I  caught  him  weeping 
with  a  book  on  his  knees,  greatly,  I  own,  to 
my  surprise. 

He  had  recalled  these  lines : 

*  O  pitiful  race  of  man  ! 
Peace  is  unknown  to  thee  1 
Thou  canst  not  find  it  save 
In  the  dust  of  the  grave.  .  . 
Bitter,  bitter  is  that  sleep  ! 
Rest,  rest  in  death  .  .  .  but  living  weep  I* 

These  lines  were  the  composition  of  a  certain 
Gormitch  -  Gormitsky,  a  wandering  poet,  to 
whom  Alexey  Sergeitch  had  given  a  home 
in  his  house,  as  he  struck  him  as  a  man  of 
delicate  feeling  and  even  of  subtlety  ;  he  wore 
slippers  adorned  with  ribbons,  spoke  with  a 
i86 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

broad  accent,  and  frequently  sighed,  turning  his 
eyes  to  heaven ;  in  addition  to  all  these  quali- 
fications, Gormitch-Gormitsky  spoke  French 
decently,  having  been  educated  in  a  Jesuit 
college,  while  Alexey  Sergeitch  only  '  followed 
conversation.'  But  having  once  got  terribly 
drunk  at  the  tavern,  that  same  subtle  Gor- 
mitsky  showed  a  turbulence  beyond  all  bounds  ; 
he  gave  a  fearful  thrashing  to  Alexey  Ser- 
geitch's  valet,  the  man  cook,  two  laundry-maids 
who  chanced  to  get  in  his  way,  and  a  carpenter 
from  another  village,  and  he  broke  several  panes 
in  the  windows,  screaming  furiously  all  the 
while  :  *  There,  I  '11  show  them,  these  Russian 
loafers,  rough-hewn  billy-goats  ! ' 

And  the  strength  the  frail-looking  creature 
put  forth !  It  was  hard  work  for  eight  men 
to  master  him !  For  this  violent  proceeding 
Alexey  Sergeitch  ordered  the  poet  to  be  turned 
out  of  the  house,  after  being  put,  as  a  pre- 
liminary measure,  in  the  snow — it  was  winter- 
time— to  sober  him. 

'Yes,'  Alexey  Sergeitch  used  to  say,  *my 
day  is  over ;  I  was  a  spirited  steed,  but  I  've 
run  my  last  race  now.  Then,  I  used  to  keep 
poets  at  my  expense,  and  I  used  to  buy  pictures 
and  books  of  the  Jews,  geese  of  the  best  breeds, 
and  pouter-pigeons  of  pure  blood.  ...  I  used 
to  go  in  for  everything !  Though  dogs  I  never 
did  care  for  keeping,  because  it  goes  with 
drinking,  foulness,  and  buffoonery!  I  was  a 
187 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

young  man  of  spirit,  not  to  be  outdone.  That 
there  should  be  anything  of  Teliegin's  and  not 
first-rate  .  .  .  why,  it  was  not  to  be  thought 
of!  And  I  had  a  splendid  stud  of  horses. 
And  my  horses  came — from  what  stock  do 
you  think,  young  sir  ?  Why,  from  none  other 
than  the  celebrated  stables  of  the  Tsar,  Ivan 
Alexeitch,  brother  of  Peter  the  Great  ...  it 's 
the  truth  I  'm  telling  you  !  All  fawn-coloured 
stallions,  sleek — their  manes  to  their  knees, 
their  tails  to  their  hoofs.  .  .  .  Lions !  And  all 
that  was — and  is  buried  in  the  past.  Vanity 
of  vanities — and  every  kind  of  vanity!  But 
still — why  regret  it  ?  Every  man  has  his  limits 
set  him.  There 's  no  flying  above  the  sky,  no 
living  in  the  water,  no  getting  away  from  the 
earth.  .  .  .  We  '11  live  a  bit  longer,  anyway ! ' 

And  the  old  man  would  smile  again  and 
sniff  his  Spanish  snuff. 

The  peasants  liked  him  ;  he  was,  in  theif 
words,  a  kind  master,  not  easily  angered.  Only 
they,  too,  repeated  that  he  was  a  worn-out  steed. 
In  former  days  Alexey  Sergeitch  used  to  go 
into  everything  himself — he  used  to  drive  out 
to  the  fields,  and  to  the  mill,  and  to  the  dairy, 
and  peep  into  the  granaries  and  the  peasants' 
huts ;  every  one  knew  his  racing  droshky,  up- 
holstered in  crimson  plush,  and  drawn  by  a 
tall  mare,  with  a  broad  white  star  all  over 
her  forehead,  called  *  Beacon,'  of  the  same 
famous  breed.  Alexey  Sergeitch  used  to  drive 
i88 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

her  himself,  the  ends  of  the  reins  crushed  up 
in  his  fists.  But  when  his  seventieth  year  came, 
the  old  man  let  everything  go,  and  handed  over 
the  management  of  the  estate  to  the  bailiff 
Antip,  of  whom  he  was  secretly  afraid,  and 
whom  he  called  Micromegas  (a  reminiscence 
of  Voltaire !),  or  simply,  plunderer.  '  Well, 
plunderer,  what  have  you  to  say  ?  Have  you 
stacked  a  great  deal  in  the  barn?'  he  would 
ask  with  a  smile,  looking  straight  into  the 
plunderer's  eyes.  *  All,  by  your  good  favour, 
please  your  honour,'  Antip  would  respond 
cheerfully.  *  Favour 's  all  very  well,  only  you 
mind  what  I  say,  Micromegas !  don't  you  dare 
touch  the  peasants,  my  subjects,  out  of  my 
sight !  If  they  come  to  complain  .  .  .  I  've 
a  cane,  you  see,  not  far  off"!'  'Your  cane, 
your  honour,  Alexey  Sergeitch,  I  always  keep 
well  in  mind,'  Antip  Micromegas  would  respond, 
stroking  his  beard.  *  All  right,  don't  forget  it.' 
And  the  master  and  the  bailiff"  would  laugh  in 
each  other's  faces.  With  the  servants,  and  with 
the  serfs  in  general,  his  'subjects'  (Alexey 
Sergeitch  liked  that  word)  he  was  gentle  in 
his  behaviour.  '  Because,  think  a  little,  nephew; 
nothing  of  their  own,  but  the  cross  on  their 
neck — and  that  copper — and  daren't  hanker 
after  other  people's  goods  .  .  .  how  can  one 
expect  sense  of  them  ? '  It  is  needless  to  state 
that  of  the  so-called  'serf  question'  no  one 
even  dreamed  in  those  days ;  it  could  not 
189 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

disturb  the  peace  of  mind  of  Alexey  Sergeitch  : 
he  was  quite  happy  in  the  possession  of  his 
'subjects';  but  he  was  severe  in  his  censure 
of  bad  masters,  and  used  to  call  them  the 
enemies  of  their  order.  He  divided  the  nobles 
generally  into  three  classes :  the  prudent,  *  of 
whom  there  are  too  few ' ;  the  prodigal,  *  of 
whom  there  are  quite  enough ' ;  and  the  sense- 
less, *  of  whom  there  are  shoals  and  shoals/ 

*  And  if  any  one  of  them  is  harsh  and  oppres- 
sive with  his  subjects ' — he  would  say — '  then  he 
sins  against  God,  and  is  guilty  before  men  !  * 

Yes,  the  house-serfs  had  an  easy  life  of  it 
with  the  old  man;  the  'subjects  out  of  sight' 
no  doubt  fared  worse,  in  spite  of  the  cane  with 
which  he  threatened  Micromegas.  And  what 
a  lot  there  were  of  them,  those  house-serfs,  in 
his  house !  And  for  the  most  part  sinewy, 
hairy,  grumbling  old  fellows,  with  stooping 
shoulders,  in  long-skirted  nankeen  coats,  belted 
round  the  waist,  with  a  strong,  sour  smell 
always  clinging  to  them.  And  on  the  women's 
side,  one  could  hear  nothing  but  the  patter  of 
bare  feet,  the  swish  of  petticoats.  The  chief 
valet  was  called  Irinarh,  and  Alexey  Sergeitch 
always  called  him  in  a  long-drawn-out  call: 
*  I-ri-na-a-arh  ! '  The  others  he  called  :  *  Boy ! 
Lad  !  Whoever 's  there  of  the  men !  *  Bells 
he  could  not  endure :  *  It 's  not  an  eating-house, 
God  forbid ! '  And  what  used  to  surprise  me 
was  that  whatever  time  Alexey  Sergeitch  called 
190 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

his  valet,  he  always  promptly  made  his  appear- 
ance, as  though  he  had  sprung  out  of  the 
earth,  and  with  a  scrape  of  his  heels,  his  hands 
behind  his  back,  would  stand  before  his  master, 
a  surly,  as  it  were  angry,  but  devoted  servant ! 

Alexey  Sergeitch  was  liberal  beyond  his 
means ;  but  he  did  not  like  to  be  called  *  bene- 
factor.' 'Benefactor  to  you,  indeed,  sir!  .  .  . 
I'm  doing  myself  a  benefit,  and  not  you.  sir!' 
(when  he  was  angry  or  indignant,  he  always 
addressed  people  with  greater  formality).  *  Give 
to  a  beggar  once,'  he  used  to  say,  *and  give 
him  twice,  and  three  times.  .  .  .  And — if  he 
should  come  a  fourth  time,  give  to  him  still — 
only  then  you  might  say  too  :  "  It 's  time,  my 
good  man,  you  found  work  for  something  else, 
not  only  for  your  mouth."'  *  But,  uncle,' one 
asked,  sometimes,  '  suppose  even  after  that  the 
beggar  came  again,  a  fifth  time  ?  *  *  Oh,  well, 
give  again  the  fifth  time.'  He  used  to  have 
the  sick,  who  came  to  him  for  aid,  treated 
at  his  expense,  though  he  had  no  faith  in 
doctors  himself,  and  never  sent  for  them.  '  My 
mother,'  he  declared,  'used  to  cure  illnesses 
of  all  sorts  with  oil  and  salt — she  gave  it 
internally,  and  rubbed  it  on  too — it  always 
answered  splendidly.  And  who  was  my 
mother?  She  was  born  in  the  days  of  Peter 
the  Great — only  fancy  that ! ' 

Alexey  Sergeitch  was  a  Russian  in  every- 
thing;  he  liked  none  but  Russian  dishes,  he 
191 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

was  fond  of  Russian  songs,  but  the  harmonica 
— a  *  manufactured  contrivance ' — he  hated  ;  he 
liked  looking  at  the  serf-girls'  dances  and  the 
peasant-women's  jigs  ;  in  his  youth,  I  was  told, 
he  had  been  an  enthusiastic  singer  and  a  dash- 
ing dancer ;  he  liked  steaming  himself  in  the 
bath,  and  steamed  himself  so  vigorously  that 
Irinarh,  who,  serving  him  as  bathman,  used  to 
beat  him  with  a  bundle  of  birch-twigs  steeped 
in  beer,  to  rub  him  with  a  handful  of  tow,  and 
then  with  a  woollen  cloth — the  truly  devoted 
Irinarh  used  to  say  every  time,  as  he  crept 
off  his  shelf  red  as  a  'new  copper  image': 
'  Well,  this  time  I,  the  servant  of  God,  Irinarh 
Tolobiev,  have  come  out  alive.  How  will  it 
be  next  time  ? ' 

And  Alexey  Sergeitch  spoke  excellent 
Russian,  a  little  old-fashioned,  but  choice  and 
pure  as  spring  water,  continually  interspersing 
his  remarks  with  favourite  expressions  :  *'Pon 
my  honour,  please  God,  howsoever  that  may 
be,  sir,  and  young  sir.  .  .  .' 

But  enough  of  him.  Let  us  talk  a  little 
about  Alexey  Sergeitch's  wife,  Malania  Pav- 
lovna. 

Malania  Pavlovna  was  born  at  Moscow. 
She  had  been  famous  as  the  greatest  beauty 
in  Moscow — la  V^nus  de  Moscou.  I  knew  her 
as  a  thin  old  woman  with  delicate  but  insigni- 
ficant features,  with  crooked  teeth,  like  a  hare's, 
in  a  tiny  little  mouth,  with  a  multitude  of  finely 
192 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

crimped  little  yellow  curls  on  her  forehead, 
and  painted  eyebrows.  She  invariably  wore 
a  pyramidal  cap  with  pink  ribbons,  a  high 
ruff  round  her  neck,  a  short  white  dress,  and 
prunella  slippers  with  red  heels ;  and  over  her 
dress  she  wore  a  jacket  of  blue  satin,  with  a 
sleeve  hanging  loose  from  her  right  shoulder. 
This  was  precisely  the  costume  in  which  she 
was  arrayed  on  St.  Peter's  Day  in  the  year 
1789 !  On  that  day  she  went,  being  still  a  girl, 
with  her  relations  to  the  Hodinskoe  field  to 
see  the  famous  boxing-match  arranged  by 
Orlov.  *And  Count  Alexey  Grigorievitch ' 
(oh,  how  often  I  used  to  hear  this  story !) 
'noticing  me,  approached,  bowed  very  low, 
taking  his  hat  in  both  hands,  and  said :  "  Peer- 
less beauty,"  said  he,  "  why  have  you  hung  that 
sleeve  from  your  shoulder  ?  Do  you,  too,  wish 
to  try  a  tussle  with  me  ?  ...  By  all  means ; 
only  I  will  tell  you  beforehand  you  have  van- 
quished me — I  give  in !  And  I  am  your 
captive."  And  every  one  was  looking  at  us  and 
wondering.'  And  that  very  costume  she  had 
worn  continually  ever  since.  'Only  I  didn't 
wear  a  cap,  but  a  hat  d  la  bergere  de  Trianon  ; 
and  though  I  was  powdered,  yet  my  hair  shone 
through  it,  positively  shone  through  it  like 
gold ! '  Malania  Pavlovna  was  foolish  to  the 
point  of  *  holy  innocence,'  as  it  is  called  ;  she 
chattered  quite  at  random,  as  though  she  were 
hardly  aware  herself  of  what  dropped  from  her 
N  193 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

lips — and  mostly  about  Orlov.  Orlov  had  be- 
come, one  might  say,  the  principal  interest  of 
her  life.  She  usually  walked  ...  or  rather  swam, 
into  the  room  with  a  rhythmic  movement  of 
the  head,  like  a  peacock,  stood  still  in  the 
middle,  with  one  foot  strangely  turned  out,  and 
two  fingers  holding  the  tip  of  the  loose  sleeve 
(I  suppose  this  pose,  too,  must  once  have 
charmed  Orlov) ;  she  would  glance  about  her 
with  haughty  nonchalance,  as  befits  a  beauty — 
and  with  a  positive  sniff,  and  a  murmur  of 
*  What  next ! '  as  though  some  importunate 
gallant  were  besieging  her  with  compliments, 
she  would  go  out  again,  tapping  her  heels  and 
shrugging  her  shoulders.  She  used,  too,  to  take 
Spanish  snuff  out  of  a  tiny  bonbonniere,  picking 
it  up  with  a  tiny  golden  spoon ;  and  from  time 
to  time,  especially  when  any  one  unknown  to 
her  was  present,  she  would  hold  up — not  to  her 
eyes,  she  had  splendid  sight,  but  to  her  nose — 
a  double  eyeglass  in  the  shape  of  a  half-moon, 
with  a  coquettish  turn  of  her  little  white  hand, 
one  finger  held  out  separate  from  the  rest. 
How  often  has  Malania  Pavlovna  described  to 
me  her  wedding  in  the  church  of  the  Ascen- 
sion, in  Arbaty — such  a  fine  church  ! — and  how 
all  Moscow  was  there  ...  *  and  the  crush  there 
was ! — awful !  Carriages  with  teams,  golden 
coaches,  outriders  .  .  .  one  outrider  of  Count 
Zavadovsky  got  run  over !  and  we  were  married 
by  the  archbishop  himself — and  what  a  sermon 
194 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

he  gave  us  !  every  one  was  crying  —  wher- 
ever I  looked  I  saw  tears  .  .  .  and  the 
governor-general's  horses  were  tawny,  like 
tigers.  And  the  flowers,  the  flowers  that  were 
brought !  .  .  .  Simply  loads  of  flowers  ! '  And 
how  on  that  day  a  foreigner,  a  wealthy,  tre- 
mendously wealthy  person,  had  shot  himself 
from  love — and  how  Orlov  too  had  been  there. 
.  .  .  And  going  up  to  Alexey  Sergeitch,  he  had 
congratulated  him  and  called  him  a  lucky  man 
...  *  A  lucky  man  you  are,  you  silly  fellow  ! ' 
said  he.  And  how  in  answer  to  these  words 
Alexey  Sergeitch  had  made  a  wonderful  bow, 
and  had  swept  the  floor  from  left  to  right  with 
the  plumes  of  his  hat,  as  if  he  would  say  :  *  Your 
Excellency,  there  is  a  line  now  between  you  and 
my  spouse,  which  you  will  not  overstep  ! '  And 
Orlov,  Alexey  Grigorievitch  understood  at  once, 
and  commended  him.  *  Oh  !  that  was  a  man  ! 
such  a  man  ! '  And  how,  *  One  day,  Alexis 
and  I  were  at  his  house  at  a  ball — I  was  married 
then — and  he  had  the  most  marvellous  diamond 
buttons  !  And  I  could  not  resist  it,  I  admired 
them.  "  What  marvellous  diamonds  you  have, 
Count ! "  said  I.  And  he,  taking  up  a  knife 
from  the  table,  at  once  cut  off  a  button  and 
presented  it  to  me  and  said  :  "  In  your  eyes,  my 
charmer  the  diamonds  are  a  hundred  times 
brighter ;  stand  before  the  looking-glass  and 
compare  them."  And  I  stood  so,  and  he  stood 
beside  me.  "  Well,  who  's  right  ?  "  said  he, 
195 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

while  he  simply  rolled  his  eyes,  looking  me  up 
and  down.  And  Alexey  Sergeitch  was  very 
much  put  out  about  it,  but  I  said  to  him : 
"  Alexis,"  said  I,  "  please  don't  you  be  put  out ; 
you  ought  to  know  me  better  !  "  And  he  an- 
swered me  :  "Don't  disturb  yourself,  Melanie!" 
And  these  very  diamonds  are  now  round  my 
medallion  of  Alexey  Grigorievitch  —  you've 
seen  it,  I  dare  say,  my  dear ; — I  wear  it  on  feast- 
days  on  a  St.  George  ribbon,  because  he  was 
a  brave  hero,  a  knight  of  St.  George:  he  burned 
the  Turks.' 

For  all  that,  Malania  Pavlovna  was  a  very 
kind-hearted  woman  ;  she  was  easily  pleased. 
*  She 's  not  one  to  snarl,  nor  to  sneer,'  the 
maids  used  to  say  of  her.  Malania  Pavlovna 
was  passionately  fond  of  sweet  things — and  a 
special  old  woman  who  looked  after  nothing 
but  the  jam,  and  so  was  called  the  jam-maid, 
would  bring  her,  ten  times  a  day,  a  china  dish 
with  rose-leaves  crystallised  in  sugar,  or  bar- 
berries in  honey,  or  sherbet  of  bananas. 
Malania  Pavlovna  was  afraid  of  solitude — 
dreadful  thoughts  are  apt  to  come  over  one, 
she  would  say — and  was  almost  always  sur- 
rounded by  companions,  whom  she  would 
urgently  implore  :  '  Talk,  talk  !  why  do  you  sit 
like  that,  simply  keeping  your  seats  warm  ! ' 
and  they  would  begin  twittering  like  canaries. 
She  was  no  less  devout  than  Alexey  Sergeitch, 
and  was  very  fond  of  praying ;  but  as,  in  her 
196 


Old  poRtRAits 

own  words,  she  had  never  learned  to  repeat 
prayers  well,  she  kept  for  the  purpose  a  poor 
deacon's  widow  who  prayed  with  such  relish ! 
Never  stumbled  over  a  word  in  her  life !  And 
this  deacon's  widow  certainly  could  utter  the 
words  of  prayer  in  a  sort  of  unbroken  flow,  not 
interrupting  the  stream  to  breathe  out  or  draw 
breath  in,  while  Malania  Pavlovna  listened 
and  was  much  moved.  She  had  another  widow 
in  attendance  on  her — it  was  her  duty  to  tell 
her  stories  in  the  night.  '  But  only  the  old  ones,' 
Malania  Pavlovna  would  beg — 'those  I  know 
already  ;  the  new  ones  are  all  so  far-fetched.' 
Malania  Pavlovna  was  flighty  in  the  extreme, 
and  at  times  she  was  fanciful  too ;  some 
ridiculous  notion  would  suddenly  come  into  her 
head.  She  did  not  like  the  dwarf,  Janus,  for 
instance ;  she  was  always  fancying  he  would 
suddenly  get  up  and  shout,  '  Don't  you  know 
who  lam?  The  prince  of  the  Buriats.  Mind, 
you  are  to  obey  me  ! '  Or  else  that  he  would 
set  fire  to  the  house  in  a  fit  of  spleen.  Malania 
Pavlovna  was  as  liberal  as  Alexey  Sergeitch ; 
but  she  never  gave  money — she  did  not  like  to 
soil  her  hands — but  kerchiefs,  bracelets,  dresses, 
ribbons ;  or  she  would  send  pies  from  the 
table,  or  a  piece  of  roast  meat,  or  a  bottle  of 
wine.  She  liked  feasting  the  peasant-women, 
too,  on  holidays ;  they  would  dance,  and  she 
would  tap  with  her  heels  and  throw  herself 
into  attitudes. 

197 


OLD  I'ORtRAltS 

Alexey  Sergeitch  was  well  aware  that  his 
wife  was  a  fool ;  but  almost  from  the  first  year 
of  his  marriage  he  had  schooled  himself  to 
keep  up  the  fiction  that  she  was  very  witty 
and  fond  of  saying  cutting  things.  Some- 
times when  her  chatter  began  to  get  beyond 
all  bounds,  he  would  threaten  her  with  his 
finger,  and  say  as  he  did  so  :  *  Ah,  the  tongue, 
the  tongue  !  what  it  will  have  to  answer  for 
in  the  other  world  !  It  will  be  pierced  with 
a  redhot  pin  ! ' 

Malania  Pavlovna  was  not  offended,  how- 
ever, at  this  ;  on  the  contrary,  she  seemed  to 
feel  flattered  at  hearing  a  reproof  of  that  sort, 
as  though  she  would  say,  *  Well !  is  it  my  fault 
if  I  'm  naturally  witty? ' 

Malania  Pavlovna  adored  her  husband,  and 
had  been  all  her  life  an  exemplarily  faithful 
wife;  but  there  had  been  a  romance  even  in  her 
life — a  young  cousin,  an  hussar,  killed,  as  she 
supposed,  in  a  duel  on  her  account ;  but,  ac- 
cording to  more  trustworthy  reports,  killed  by  a 
blow  on  the  head  from  a  billiard-cue  in  a  tavern 
brawl.  A  water-colour  portrait  of  this  object 
of  her  affections  was  kept  by  her  in  a  secret 
drawer.  Malania  Pavlovna  always  blushed  up 
to  her  ears  when  she  mentioned  Kapiton — such 
was  the  name  of  the  young  hero — and  Alexey 
Sergeitch  would  designedly  scowl,  shake  his 
finger  at  his  wife  again,  and  say :  '  No  trusting  a 
horse  in  the  field  nor  a  woman  in  the  house. 
198 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

Don't  talk  to  me  of  Kapiton,  he 's  Cupidon  !  * 
Then  Malania  Pavlovna  would  be  all  of  a 
flutter  and  say  :  *  Alexis,  Alexis,  it 's  too  bad  of 
you  !  In  your  young  days  you  flirted,  I  Ve  no 
doubt,  with  all  sorts  of  misses  and  madams — 
and  so  now  you  imagine  .  .  .'  *  Come,  that 's 
enough,  that 's  enough,  my  dear  Malania,' 
Alexey  Sergeitch  interrupted  with  a  smile. 
*Your  gown  is  white — but  whiter  still  your 
soul ! '  '  Yes,  Alexis,  it  is  whiter ! '  *  Ah,  what 
a  tongue,  what  a  tongue ! '  Alexis  would  repeat, 
patting  her  hand. 

To  speak  of  *  views '  in  the  case  of  Malania 
Pavlovna  would  be  even  more  inappropriate 
than  in  the  case  of  Alexey  Sergeitch  ;  yet  I  once 
chanced  to  witness  a  strange  manifestation  of 
my  aunt's  secret  feelings.  In  the  course  of 
conversation  I  once  somehow  mentioned  the 
famous  chief  of  police,  Sheshkovsky ;  Malania 
Pavlovna  turned  suddenly  livid  —  positively 
livid,  green,  in  spite  of  her  rouge  and  paint — 
and  in  a  thick  and  perfectly  unaffected  voice  (a 
very  rare  thing  with  her — she  usually  minced  a 
little,  intoned,  and  lisped)  she  said  :  *  Oh,  what 
a  name  to  utter !  And  towards  nightfall,  too ! 
Don't  utter  that  name  ! '  I  was  astonished  ; 
what  kind  of  significance  could  his  name  have 
for  such  a  harmless  and  inoflensive  creature, 
incapable — not  merely  of  doing — even  of  think- 
ing of  anything  not  permissible?  Anything 
but  cheerful  reflections  were  aroused  in  me  by 
199 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

this  terror,  manifesting  itself  after  almost  half 
a  century. 

Alexey  Sergeitch  died  in  his  eighty-eighth 
year — in  the  year  1848,  which  apparently  dis- 
turbed even  him.  His  death,  too,  was  rather 
strange.  He  had  felt  well  the  same  morning, 
though  by  that  time  he  never  left  his  easy-chair. 
And  all  of  a  sudden  he  called  his  wife : 
'Malania,  my  dear,  come  here.'  'What  is  it, 
Alexis  ?  *  *  It 's  time  for  me  to  die,  my  dear, 
that's  what  it  is.'  *  Mercy  on  you,  Alexey 
Sergeitch !  What  for  ? '  *  Because,  first  of  all, 
one  must  know  when  to  take  leave ;  and, 
besides,  I  was  looking  the  other  day  at  my 
feet.  .  .  .  Look  at  my  feet  .  .  .  they  are  not 
mine  .  .  .  say  what  you  like  .  .  .  look  at  my 
hands,  look  at  my  stomach  .  .  .  that  stomach 's 
not  mine — so  really  I  'm  using  up  another 
man's  life.  Send  for  the  priest ;  and  mean- 
while, put  me  to  bed — from  which  I  shall  not 
get  up  again.'  Malania  Pavlovna  was  terribly 
upset;  however,  she  put  the  old  man  to  bed 
and  sent  for  the  priest.  Alexey  Sergeitch  con- 
fessed, took  the  sacrament,  said  good-bye  to 
his  household,  and  fell  asleep.  Malania  Pav- 
lovna was  sitting  by  his  bedside.  *  Alexis ! ' 
she  cried  suddenly,  'don't  frighten  me,  don't 
shut  your  eyes !  Are  you  in  pain  ? '  The  old 
man  looked  at  his  wife :  *  No,  no  pain  .  .  .  but 
it's  difficult  .  .  .  difficult  to  breathe.'  Then 
after  a  brief  silence :  *  Malania,'  he  said,  *  so  life 
200 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

has  slipped  by — and  do  you  remember  when 
we  were  married  .  .  .  what  a  couple  we  were  ? ' 

*  Yes,  we  were,  my  handsome,  charming 
Alexis ! '     The    old    man    was    silent    again. 

*  Malania,  my  dear,  shall  we  meet  again  in  the 
next  world  ? '  *  I  will  pray  God  for  it,  Alexis,* 
and  the  old  woman  burst  into  tears.  'Come, 
don't  cry,  silly  ;  maybe  the  Lord  God  will  make 
us  young  again  then — and  again  we  shall  be  a 
fine  pair  ! '  '  He  will  make  us  young,  Alexis  ! ' 
'With  the  Lord  all  things  are  possible,'  ob- 
served Alexey  Sergeitch.  *  He  worketh  great 
marvels ! — maybe  He  will  make  you  sensible. 
.  .  .  There,  my  love,  I  was  joking;  come,  let 
me  kiss  your  hand.'  'And  I  yours.'  And 
the  two  old  people  kissed  each  other's  hands 
simultaneously. 

Alexey  Sergeitch  began  to  grow  quieter  and 
to  sink  into  forgetfulness.  Malania  Pavlovna 
watched  him  tenderly,  brushing  the  tears  off 
her  eyelashes  with  her  finger-tips.  For  two 
hours  she  continued  sitting  there.  *  Is  he 
asleep?'  the  old  woman  with  the  talent  for 
praying  inquired  in  a  whisper,  peeping  in 
behind  Irinarh,  who,  immovable  as  a  post,  stood 
in  the  doorway,  gazing  intently  at  his  expiring 
master.  *  He  is  asleep,'  answered  Malania 
Pavlovna  also  in  a  whisper.  And  suddenly 
Alexey  Sergeitch  opened  his  eyes.  *  My  faith- 
ful companion,'  he  faltered,  *  my  honoured  wife, 
I  would   bow  down  at  your  little  feet  for  all 

20I 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

your  love  and  faithfulness — but  how  to  get  up  ? 
Let  me  sign  you  with  the  cross.'  Malania 
Pavlovna  moved  closer,  bent  down.  .  .  .  But 
the  hand  he  had  raised  fell  back  powerless 
on  the  quilt,  and  a  few  moments  later  Alexey 
Sergeitch  was  no  more. 

His  daughters  arrived  only  on  the  day  of 
the  funeral  with  their  husbands ;  they  had  no 
children  either  of  them.  Alexey  Sergeitch 
showed  them  no  animosity  in  his  will,  though 
he  never  even  mentioned  them  on  his  death- 
bed. *  My  heart  has  grown  hard  to  them,'  he 
once  said  to  me.  Knowing  his  kindly  nature, 
I  was  surprised  at  his  words.  It  is  hard  to 
judge  between  parents  and  children.  *  A  great 
ravine  starts  from  a  little  rift,'  Alexey  Sergeitch 
said  to  me  once  in  this  connection  :  *  a  wound 
a  yard  wide  may  heal ;  but  once  cut  off  even  a 
finger  nail,  it  will  not  grow  again.' 

I  fancy  the  daughters  were  ashamed  of  their 
eccentric  old  parents. 

A  month  later  and  Malania  Pavlovna  too 
passed  away.  From  the  very  day  of  Alexey 
Sergeitch's  death  she  had  hardly  risen  from 
her  bed,  and  had  not  put  on  her  usual  attire  ; 
but  they  buried  her  in  the  blue  jacket,  and  with 
Orlov's  medallion  on  her  shoulder,  only  without 
the  diamonds.  Those  her  daughters  divided,  on 
the  pretext  that  the  diamonds  should  be  used 
in  the  setting  of  some  holy  pictures  ;  in  reality, 
they  used  them  to  adorn  their  own  persons. 

202 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

And  so  I  can  see  my  old  friends  as  though 
they  were  alive  and  before  my  eyes,  and  plea- 
sant is  the  memory  I  preserve  of  them.  And 
yet  on  my  very  last  visit  to  them  (I  was  a 
student  by  then)  an  incident  occurred  which 
jarred  upon  the  impression  of  patriarchal  har- 
mony always  produced  in  me  by  the  Teliegin 
household. 

Among  the  house-serfs  there  was  one  Ivan, 
called  *Suhys'  Ivan,'  a  coachman  or  coach- boy, 
as  they  called  him  on  account  of  his  small  size, 
in  spite  of  his  being  no  longer  young.  He 
was  a  tiny  little  man,  brisk,  snub-nosed,  curly- 
headed,  with  an  everlastingly  smiling,  childish 
face,  and  little  eyes,  like  a  mouse's.  He  was  a 
great  joker,  a  most  comic  fellow ;  he  was  great 
at  all  sorts  of  tricks — he  used  to  fly  kites,  let  off 
fireworks  and  rockets,  to  play  all  sorts  of  games, 
gallop  standing  up  on  the  horse's  back,  fly 
higher  than  all  the  rest  in  the  swing,  and  could 
even  make  Chinese  shadows.  No  one  could 
amuse  children  better;  and  he  would  gladly 
spend  the  whole  day  looking  after  them.  When 
he  started  laughing,  the  whole  house  would 
seem  to  liven  up ;  they  would  answer  him — 
one  would  say  one  thing,  one  another,  but 
he  always  made  them  all  merry.  .  .  .  And 
even  if  they  abused  him,  they  could  not  but 
laugh.  Ivan  danced  marvellously,  especially 
the  so-called  'fish  dance.'  When  the  chorus 
struck  up  a  dance  tune,  the  fellow  would 
203 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

come  into  the  middle  of  the  ring,  and  then 
there  would  begin  such  a  turning  and  skipping 
and  stamping,  and  then  he  would  fall  flat 
on  the  ground,  and  imitate  the  movement 
of  a  fish  brought  out  of  the  water  on  to  dry 
land ;  such  turning  and  wriggling,  the  heels 
positively  clapped  up  to  the  head  ;  and  then 
he  would  get  up  and  shriek — the  earth  seemed 
simply  quivering  under  him.  At  times  Alexey 
Sergeitch,  who  was,  as  I  have  said  already, 
exceedingly  fond  of  watching  dancing,  could 
not  resist  shouting,  *  Little  Vania,  here !  coach- 
boy  !  Dance  us  the  fish,  smartly  now  * ;  and  a 
minute  later  he  would  whisper  enthusiastically: 

*  Ah,  what  a  fellow  it  is ! ' 

Well,  on  my  last  visit,  this  Ivan  Suhih  came 
into  my  room,  and,  without  saying  a  word,  fell 
on    his    knees.      *  Ivan,   what 's   the   matter  ? ' 

*  Save  me,  sir.'  '  Why,  what  is  it  ? '  And  there- 
upon Ivan  told  me  his  trouble. 

He  was  exchanged,  twenty  years  ago,  by 
the  Suhy  family  for  a  serf  of  the  Teliegins' ; — 
simply  exchanged  without  any  kind  of  formality 
or  written  deed :  the  man  given  in  exchange 
for  him  had  died,  but  the  Suhys  had  forgotten 
about  Ivan,  and  he  had  stayed  on  in  Alexey 
Sergeitch's  house  as  his  own  serf;  only  his 
nickname  had  served  to  recall  his  origin.  But 
now  his  former  masters  were  dead  ;  the  estate 
had  passed  into  other  hands ;  and  the  new 
owner,  who  was  reported  to  be  a  cruel  and 
204 


OLD  PORTRAITS 

Oppressive  man,  having  learned  that  one  of  his 
serfs  was  detained  without  cause  or  reason  at 
Alexey  Sergeitch's,  began  to  demand  him  back ; 
in  case  of  refusal  he  threatened  legal  proceed- 
ings, and  the  threat  was  not  an  empty  one,  as 
he  was  himself  of  the  rank  of  privy  councillor, 
and  had  great  weight  in  the  province.  Ivan  had 
rushed  in  terror  to  Alexey  Sergeitch.  The 
old  man  was  sorry  for  his  dancer,  and  he  offered 
the  privy  councillor  to  buy  Ivan  for  a  consider- 
able sum.  But  the  privy  councillor  would  not 
hear  of  it;  he  was  a  Little  Russian,  and  obstinate 
as  the  devil.  The  poor  fellow  would  have  to  be 
given  up.  *  I  have  spent  my  life  here,  and  I  'm 
at  home  here ;  I  have  served  here,  here  I  have 
eaten  my  bread,  and  here  I  want  to  die,'  Ivan 
said  to  me — and  there  was  no  smile  on  his  face 
now  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  looked  turned  to  stone. 
.  ,  .  '  And  now  I  am  to  go  to  this  wretch.  .  .  . 
Am  I  a  dog  to  be  flung  from  one  kennel  to 
another  with  a  noose  round  my  neck  ?  ...  to 
be  told  :  "  There,  get  along  with  you  ! "  Save 
me,  master ;  beg  your  uncle,  remember  how  I 
always  amused  you.  ...  Or  else  there'll  be 
harm  come  of  it ;  it  won't  end  without  sin.* 

*  What  sort  of  sin,  Ivan  ?  ' 

*  I  shall  kill  that  gentleman.  I  shall  simply 
go  and  say  to  him,  "  Master,  let  me  go  back ; 
or  else,  mind,  be  careful  of  yourself.  ...  I  shall 
kill  you."' 

If  a  siskin  or  a  chaffinch  could  have  spoken, 
205 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

and  had  begun  declaring  that  it  would  peck 
another  bird  to  death,  it  would  not  have  reduced 
me  to  greater  amazement  than  did  Ivan  at  that 
moment.  What !  Suhys'  Vania,  that  dancing, 
jesting,  comic  fellow,  the  favourite  playfellow 
of  children,  and  a  child  himself,  that  kindest- 
hearted  of  creatures,  a  murderer  !  What 
ridiculous  nonsense  !  Not  for  an  instant  did  I 
believe  him ;  what  astonished  me  to  such  a 
degree  was  that  he  was  capable  of  saying  such 
a  thing.  Anyway  I  appealed  to  Alexey  Ser- 
geitch.  I  did  not  repeat  what  Ivan  had  said  to 
me,  but  began  asking  him  whether  something 
couldn't  be  done.  *  My  young  sir,*  the  old 
man  answered,  '  I  should  be  only  too  happy — 
but  what's  to  be  done?  I  offered  this  Little 
Russian  an  immense  compensation — I  offered 
him  three  hundred  roubles,  'pon  my  honour,  I 
tell  you!  but  he — there's  no  moving  him!  what's 
one  to  do  ?  The  transaction  was  not  legal,  it 
was  done  on  trust,  in  the  old-fashioned  way 
.  .  .  and  now  see  what  mischief's  come  of  it ! 
This  Little  Russian  fellow,  you  see,  will  take 
Ivan  by  force,  do  what  we  will :  his  arm  is 
powerful,  the  governor  eats  cabbage-soup  at  his 
table  ;  he  '11  be  sending  along  soldiers.  And 
I  'm  afraid  of  those  soldiers  !  In  old  days,  to 
be  sure,  I  would  have  stood  up  for  Ivan,  come 
what  might ;  but  now,  look  at  me,  what  a  feeble 
creature  I  have  grown !  How  can  I  make  a 
fight  for  it  ? '  It  was  true ;  on  my  last  visit  I 
2q6 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

found  Alexey  Sergeitch  greatly  aged ;  even 
the  centres  of  his  eyes  had  that  milky  colour 
that  babies'  eyes  have,  and  his  lips  wore  not 
his  old  conscious  smile,  but  that  unnatural, 
mawkish,  unconscious  grin,  which  never,  even 
in  sleep,  leaves  the  faces  of  very  decrepit  old 
people. 

I  told  Ivan  of  Alexey  Sergeitch's  decision. 
He  stood  still,  was  silent  for  a  little,  shook  his 
head.  'Well,'  said  he  at  last,  *what  is  to  be 
there 's  no  escaping.  Only  my  mind 's  made 
up.  There  's  nothing  left,  then,  but  to  play  the 
fool  to  the  end.  Something  for  drink,  please  ! ' 
I  gave  him  something  ;  he  drank  himself  drunk, 
and  that  day  danced  the  *fish  dance 'so  that 
the  serf-girls  and  peasant-women  positively 
shrieked  with  delight — he  surpassed  himself  in 
his  antics  so  wonderfully. 

Next  day  I  went  home,  and  three  months 
later,  in  Petersburg,  I  heard  that  Ivan  had  kept 
his  word.  He  had  been  sent  to  his  new  master , 
his  master  had  called  him  into  his  room,  and 
explained  to  him  that  he  would  be  made 
coachman,  that  a  team  of  three  ponies  would 
be  put  in  his  charge,  and  that  he  would  be 
severely  dealt  with  if  he  did  not  look  after  them 
well,  and  were  not  punctual  in  discharging  his 
duties  generally.  *  I  'm  not  fond  of  joking.' 
Ivan  heard  the  master  out,  first  bowed  down 
to  his  feet,  and  then  announced  it  was  as  his 
honour  pleased,  but  he  could  not  be  his  servant 
207 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

*Let  me  off  for  a  yearly  quit-money,  your 
honour,'  said  he,  *  or  send  me  for  a  soldier ;  or 
else  there  '11  be  mischief  come  of  it !  * 

The  master  flew  into  a  rage.  *Ah,  what  a 
fellow  you  are!  How  dare  you  speak  to  me 
like  that  ?  In  the  first  place,  I  'm  to  be  called 
your  excellency,  and  not  your  honour ;  and, 
secondly,  you  're  beyond  the  age,  and  not  of  a 
size  to  be  sent  for  a  soldier ;  and,  lastly,  what 
mischief  do  you  threaten  me  with?  Do  you 
mean  to  set  the  house  on  fire,  eh  ?  ' 

*  No,  your  excellency,  not  the  house  on  fire.' 

*  Murder  me,  then,  eh  ? ' 

Ivan  was  silent.  *  I  'm  not  your  servant,'  he 
said  at  last. 

*  Oh  well,  I  '11  show  you,'  roared  the  master, 
*  whether  you  're  my  servant  or  not'  And  he 
had  Ivan  cruelly  punished,  but  yet  had  the 
three  ponies  put  into  his  charge,  and  made  him 
coachman  in  the  stables. 

Ivan  apparently  submitted;  he  began  driv- 
ing about  as  coachman.  As  he  drove  well,  he 
soon  gained  favour  with  the  master,  especially 
as  Ivan  was  very  quiet  and  steady  in  his 
behaviour,  and  the  ponies  improved  so  much  in 
his  hands;  he  turned  them  out  as  sound  and 
sleek  as  cucumbers — it  was  quite  a  sight  to  see. 
The  master  took  to  driving  out  with  him 
oftener  than  with  the  other  coachmen.  Some- 
times he  would  ask  him,  *  I  say,  Ivan,  do  you 
remember  how  badly  we  got  on  when  we  met  ? 
208 


OLD   PORTRAITS 

You  've  got  over  all  that  nonsense,  eh  ? '  But 
Ivan  never  made  any  response  to  such  remarks. 
So  one  day  the  master  was  driving  with  Ivan 
to  the  town  in  his  three-horse  sledge  with  bells 
and  a  highback  covered  with  carpet.  The 
horses  began  to  walk  up  the  hill,  and  Ivan  got 
off  the  box-seat  and  went  behind  the  back  of 
the  sledge  as  though  he  had  dropped  some- 
thing. It  was  a  sharp  frost;  the  master  sat 
wrapped  up,  with  a  beaver  cap  pulled  down  on 
to  his  ears.  Then  Ivan  took  an  axe  from  under 
his  skirt,  came  up  to  the  master  from  behind, 
knocked  off  his  cap,  and  saying,  *  I  warned  you, 
Pietr  Petrovitch — you  've  yourself  to  blame 
now  1 '  he  struck  off  his  head  at  one  blow. 
Then  he  stopped  the  ponies,  put  the  cap  on 
his  dead  master,  and,  getting  on  the  box-seat 
again,  drove  him  to  the  town,  straight  to  the 
courts  of  justice. 

*  Here 's  the  Suhinsky  general  for  you,  dead  ; 
I  have  killed  him.  As  I  told  him,  so  I  did  to 
him.     Put  me  in  fetters.' 

They  took  Ivan,  tried  him,  sentenced  him  to 
the  knout,  and  then  to  hard  labour.  The  light- 
hearted,  bird-like  dancer  was  sent  to  the  mines, 
and  there  passed  out  of  sight  for  ever.  .  .  . 

Yes ;  one  can  but  repeat,  in  another  sense, 
Alexey  Sergeitch's  words :  *  They  were  good 
old  times  .  .  ,  but  enough  of  them ! ' 

1881. 
o  209 


THE  BRIGADIER 

I 

Reader,  do  you  know  those  little  homesteads 
of  country  gentlefolks,  which  were  plentiful  in 
our  Great  Russian  Oukratne  twenty-five  or 
thirty  years  ago?  Now  one  rarely  comes 
across  them,  and  in  another  ten  years  the  last 
of  them  will,  I  suppose,  have  disappeared  for 
ever.  The  running  pond  overgrown  with  reeds 
and  rushes,  the  favourite  haunt  of  fussy  ducks, 
among  whom  one  may  now  and  then  come 
across  a  wary  *  teal ' ;  beyond  the  pond  a  garden 
with  avenues  of  lime-trees,  the  chief  beauty  and 
glory  of  our  black-earth  plains,  with  smothered 
rows  of  '  Spanish '  strawberries,  with  dense 
thickets  of  gooseberries,  currants,  and  rasp- 
berries, in  the  midst  of  which,  in  the  languid 
hour  of  the  stagnant  noonday  heat,  one  would 
be  sure  to  catch  glimpses  of  a  serf-girl's  striped 
kerchief,  and  to  hear  the  shrill  ring  of  her  voice. 
Close  by  would  be  a  summer-house  standing  on 
four  legs,  a  conservatory,  a  neglected  kitchen 
garden,  with  flocks  of  sparrows  hung  on  stakes, 

2IO 


THE   BRIGADIER 

and  a  cat  curled  up  on  the  tumble-down  well ;  a 
little  further,  leafy  apple-trees  in  the  high  grass, 
which  is  green  below  and  grey  above,  strag- 
gling cherry-trees,  pear-trees,  on  which  there 
is  never  any  fruit ;  then  flower-beds,  poppies, 
peonies,  pansies,  milkwort,  'maids  in  green,' 
bushes  of  Tartar  honeysuckle,  wild  jasmine,  lilac 
and  acacia,  with  the  continual  hum  of  bees 
and  wasps  among  their  thick,  fragrant,  sticky 
branches.  At  last  comes  the  manor-house,  a 
one-storied  building  on  a  brick  foundation, 
with  greenish  window-panes  in  narrow  frames, 
a  sloping,  once  painted  roof,  a  little  bal- 
cony from  which  the  vases  of  the  balustrade 
are  always  jutting  out,  a  crooked  gable,  and 
a  husky  old  dog  in  the  recess  under  the 
steps  at  the  door.  Behind  the  house  a  wide 
yard  with  nettles,  wormwood,  and  burdocks 
in  the  corners,  outbuildings  with  doors  that 
stick,  doves  and  rooks  on  the  thatched  roofs,  a 
little  storehouse  with  a  rusty  weathercock,  two 
or  three  birch-trees  with  rooks'  nests  in  their 
bare  top  branches,  and  beyond — the  road  with 
cushions  of  soft  dust  in  the  ruts  and  a  field  and 
the  long  hurdles  of  the  hemp  patches,  and  the 
grey  little  huts  of  the  village,  and  the  cackle  of 
geese  in  the  far-away  rich  meadows.  ...  Is  all 
this  familiar  to  you,  reader?  In  the  house 
itself  everything  is  a  little  awry,  a  little 
rickety — but  no  matter.  It  stands  firm  and 
keeps  warm  ;  the  stoves  are  like  elephants,  the 

211 


THE  BRIGADIER 

furniture  is  of  all  sorts,  home-made.  Little  paths 
of  white  footmarks  run  from  the  doors  over 
the  painted  floors.  In  the  hall  siskins  and  larks 
in  tiny  cages ;  in  the  corner  of  the  dining-room 
an  immense  English  clock  in  the  form  of  a 
tower,  with  the  inscription, '  Strike — silent ' ;  in 
the  drawing-room  portraits  of  the  family, 
painted  in  oils,  with  an  expression  of  ill-tem- 
pered alarm  on  the  brick-coloured  faces,  and 
sometimes  too  an  old  warped  picture  of  flowers 
and  'fruit  or  a  mythological  subject.  Every- 
where there  is  the  smell  of  kvas,  of  apples,  of 
linseed-oil  and  of  leather.  Flies  buzz  and  hum 
about  the  ceiling  and  the  windows.  A  daring 
cockroach  suddenly  shows  his  countenance  from 
behind  the  looking-glass  frame.  .  .  .  No  mat- 
ter, one  can  live  here — and  live  very  well  too. 


II 


Just  such  a  homestead  it  was  my  lot  to  visit 
thirty  years  ago  ...  it  was  in  days  long  past, 
as  you  perceive.  The  little  estate  in  which  this 
house  stood  belonged  to  a  friend  of  mine  a' 
the  university;  it  had  only  recently  come  td 
him  on  the  death  of  a  bachelor  cousin,  and  he 
was  not  living  in  it  himself.  .  .  .  But  at  no 
great  distance  from  it  there  were  wide  tracts  of 
steppe  bog,  in  which  at  the  time  of  summer 
migration,  when  they  are  on  the  wing,  there 

212 


THE   BRIGADIER 

are  great  numbers  of  snipe ;  my  friend  and  I, 
both  enthusiastic  sportsmen,  agreed  therefore 
to  go  on  St.  Peter's  day,  he  from  Moscow,  I 
from  my  own  village,  to  his  little  house.  My 
friend  lingered  in  Moscow,  and  was  two  days 
late ;  I  did  not  care  to  start  shooting  without 
him.  I  was  received  by  an  old  servant,  Narkiz 
Semyonov,  who  had  had  notice  of  my  coming. 
This  old  servant  was  not  in  the  least  like 
*  Savelitch '  or  '  Caleb  ' ;  my  friend  used  to  call 
him  in  joke  *  Marquis/  There  was  something 
of  conceit,  even  of  affectation,  about  him ;  he 
looked  down  on  us  young  men  with  a  certain 
dignity,  but  cherished  no  particularly  respectful 
sentiments  for  other  landowners  either ;  of  his 
old  master  he  spoke  slightingly,  while  his  own 
class  he  simply  scorned  for  their  ignorance. 
He  could  read  and  write,  expressed  himself 
correctly  and  with  judgment,  and  did  not 
drink.  He  seldom  went  to  church,  and  so  was 
looked  upon  as  a  dissenter.  In  appearance  he 
was  thin  and  tall,  had  a  long  and  good-looking 
face,  a  sharp  nose,  and  overhanging  eyebrows, 
which  he  was  continually  either  knitting  or  lift- 
ing ;  he  wore  a  neat,  roomy  coat,  and  boots  to 
his  knees  with  heart-shaped  scallops  at  the  tops. 

HI 

On  the  day  of  my  arrival,  Narkiz,  having  given 

me  lunch  and  cleared  the  table,  stood  in  the 

213 


THE  BRIGADIER 

doorway,  looked  intently  at  me,  and  with  some 
play  of  the  eyebrows  observed  : 

*  What  are  you  going  to  do  now,  sir  ?  * 

*  Well,  really,  I  don't  know.  If  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  had  kept  his  word  and  come,  we 
should  have  gone  shooting  together.* 

*  So  you  really  expected,  sir,  that  he  would 
come  at  the  time  he  promised  ?  * 

*  Of  course  I  did.' 

*  H'm.'  Narkiz  looked  at  me  again  and  shook 
his  head  as  it  were  with  commiseration.  *  If 
you'd  care  to  amuse  yourself  with  reading,' 
he  continued :  *  there  are  some  books  left  of 
my  old  master's ;  I  '11  get  them  you,  if  you  like  ; 
only  you  won't  read  them,  I  expect.' 

'Why?' 

*  They  're  books  of  no  value  ;  not  written  for 
the  gentlemen  of  these  days.' 

*  Have  you  read  them  ? ' 

*  If  I  hadn't  read  them,  I  wouldn't  have 
spoken  about  them.  A  dream-book,  for  instance 
.  .  .  that 's  not  much  of  a  book,  is  it  ?  There 
are  others  too,  of  course  .  .  .  only  you  won't 
read  them  either/ 

*Why?' 

'  They  are  religious  books.' 
I   was   silent  for  a   space.  .  .  .  Narkiz   was 
silent  too. 

*  What  vexes  me  most,'  I  began,  *  is  staying 
in  the  house  in  such  weather.' 

*  Take  a  walk  in  the  garden  ;  or  go  into  the 

ai4 


THE   BRIGADIER 

copse.     We  've  a  copse  here  beyond  the  thresh- 
ing-floor.    Are  you  fond  of  fishing  ?  ' 

*  Are  there  fish  here  ? ' 

*  Yes,  in  the  pond.  Loaches,  sand-eels,  and 
perches  are  caught  there.  Now,  to  be  sure,  the 
best  time  is  over;  July's  here.  But  anyway, 
you  might  try.  .  ,  .  Shall  I  get  the  tackle 
ready  ? ' 

*  Yes,  do  please.* 

*  I  '11  send  a  boy  with  you  ...  to  put  on  the 
worms.  Or  maybe  I  'd  better  come  myself?  * 
Narkiz  obviously  doubted  whether  I  knew  how 
to  set  about  things  properly  by  myself. 

*  Come,  please,  come  along.' 

Narkiz,  without  a  word,  grinned  from  ear  to 
ear,  then  suddenly  knitted  his  brows  ,  ,  and 
went  out  of  the  room. 


IV 

Half  an  hour  later  we  set  oflf  to  catch  fish. 
Narkiz  had  put  on  an  extraordinary  sort  of  cap 
with  ears,  and  was  more  dignified  than  ever.  He 
walked  in  front  with  a  steady,  even  step  ;  two 
rods  swayed  regularly  up  and  down  on  his 
shoulders;  a  bare-legged  boy  followed  him 
carrying  a  can  and  a  pot  of  worms. 

*  Here,  near  the  dike,  there 's  a  seat,  put  up 
on  the  floating  platform  on  purpose,'   Narkiz 
was  beginning  to  explain  to  me,  but  he  glanced 
215 


THE   BRIGADIER 

ahead,  and  suddenly  exclaimed:  *Aha!  but 
our  poor  folk  are  here  already  .  .  .  they  keep 
it  up,  it  seems/ 

I  craned  my  head  to  look  from  behind  him, 
and  saw  on  the  floating  platform,  on  the  very 
seat  of  which  he  had  been  speaking,  two  per- 
sons sitting  with  their  backs  to  us  ;  they  were 
placidly  fishing. 

*  Who  are  they  ? '  I  asked. 

*  Neighbours,'  Narkiz  responded,  with  dis- 
pleasure. *  They  Ve  nothing  to  eat  at  home,  and 
so  here  they  come  to  us.' 

*  Are  they  allowed  to  ? ' 

*  The  old  master  allowed  them.  .  .  .  Nikolai 
Petrovitch  maybe  won't  give  them  permis- 
sion. .  .  .  The  long  one  is  a  superannuated 
deacon — quite  a  silly  creature ;  and  as  for 
the  other,  that 's  a  little  stouter — he 's  a 
brigadier.* 

*  A  brigadier  ? '  I  repeated,  wondering.  This 
*  brigadier's '  attire  was  almost  worse  than  the 
deacon's, 

*  I  assure  you  he 's  a  brigadier.  And  he  did 
have  a  fine  property  once.  But  now  he  has 
only  a  corner  given  him  out  of  charity,  and  he 
lives  ...  on  what  God  sends  him.  But,  by 
the  way,  what  are  we  to  do  ?  They  've  taken 
the  best  place. .  . .  We  shall  have  to  disturb  our 
precious  visitors.' 

'No,    Narkiz,    please    don't    disturb    them. 
We  '11  sit  here  a  little  aside ;  they  won't  interfere 
216 


THE   BRIGADIER 

with  US.     I  should  like  to  make  acquaintance 
with  the  brigadier.* 

*  As  you  like.  Only,  as  far  as  acquaintance 
goes  .  .  .  you  needn't  expect  much  satisfaction 
from  it,  sir  ;  he 's  grown  very  weak  in  his  head, 
and  in  conversation  he 's  silly  as  a  little  child. 
As  well  he  may  be;  he's  past  his  eightieth 
year.' 

*  What 's  his  name  ?  * 

*  Vassily  Fomitch.     Guskov  's  his  surname.' 

*  And  the  deacon  ?  * 

'The  deacon?  ...  his  nickname's  Cucumber. 
Every  one  about  here  calls  him  so ;  but  what 
his  real  name  is  —  God  knows!  A  foolish 
creature !     A  regular  ne'er-do-weel.* 

'  Do  they  live  together  ? ' 

*No;  but  there — the  devil  has  tied  them 
together,  it  seems.' 


We  approached  the  platform.  The  brigadier 
cast  one  glance  upon  us  . .  .  and  promptly  fixed 
his  eyes  on  the  float ;  Cucumber  jumped  up, 
pulled  back  his  rod,  took  off  his  worn-out  clerical 
hat,  passed  a  trembling  hand  over  his  rough 
yellow  hair,  made  a  sweeping  bow,  and  gave 
vent  to  a  feeble  little  laugh.  His  bloated  face 
betrayed  him  an  inveterate  drunkard ;  his 
staring  little  eyes  blinked  humbly.  He  gave 
217 


THE  BRIGADIER 

his  neighbour  a  poke  in  the  ribs,  as  though  to 
let  him  know  that  they  must  clear  out. . .  .  The 
brigadier  began  to  move  on  the  seat. 

'  Sit  still,  I  beg ;  don't  disturb  yourselves,'  I 
hastened  to  say.  *  You  won't  interfere  with  us 
in  the  least.  We  '11  take  up  our  position  here ; 
sit  still.' 

Cucumber  wrapped  his  ragged  smock  round 
him,  twitched  his  shoulders,  his  lips,  his  beard. . . . 
Obviously  he  felt  our  presence  oppressive  and 
he  would  have  been  glad  to  slink  away, .  .  .  but 
the  brigadier  was  again  lost  in  the  contem- 
plation of  his  float.  .  .  .  The  *  ne'er-do-weel  * 
coughed  twice,  sat  down  on  the  very  edge  of 
the  seat,  put  his  hat  on  his  knees,  and,  tuck- 
ing his  bare  legs  up  under  him,  he  discreetly 
dropped  in  his  line. 

*  Any  bites  ? '  Narkiz  inquired  haughtily,  as 
in  leisurely  fashion  he  unwound  his  reel. 

'We've  caught  a  matter  of  five  loaches,* 
answered  Cucumber  in  a  cracked  and  husky 
voice :  *  and  he  took  a  good-sized  perch.' 

*Yes,  a  perch,'  repeated  the  brigadier  in  a 
shrill  pipe. 


VI 

I  FELL  to  watching  closely — not  him,  but  his 
reflection  in  the  pond.     It  was  as  clearly  re- 
flected as  in  a  looking-glass — a  little  darker,  a 
218 


THE  BRIGADIER 

little  more  silvery.  The  wide  stretch  of  pond 
wafted  a  refreshing  coolness  upon  us;  a  cool 
breath  of  air  seemed  to  rise,  too,  from  the  steep, 
damp  bank ;  and  it  was  the  sweeter,  as  in  the 
dark  blue,  flooded  with  gold,  above  the  tree 
tops,  the  stagnant  sultry  heat  hung,  a  burden 
that  could  be  felt,  over  our  heads.  There  was 
no  stir  in  the  water  near  the  dike  ;  in  the  shade 
cast  by  the  drooping  bushes  on  the  bank,  water 
spiders  gleamed,  like  tiny  bright  buttons,  as 
they  described  their  everlasting  circles ;  at  long 
intervals  there  was  a  faint  ripple  just  percep- 
tible round  the  floats,  when  a  fish  was  '  play- 
ing '  with  the  worm.  Very  few  fish  were  taken ; 
during  a  whole  hour  we  drew  up  only  two 
loaches  and  an  eel.  I  could  not  say  why  the 
brigadier  aroused  my  curiosity  ;  his  rank  could 
not  have  any  influence  on  me  ;  ruined  noblemen 
were  not  even  at  that  time  looked  upon  as  a 
rarity,  and  his  appearance  presented  nothing 
remarkable.  Under  the  warm  cap,  which 
covered  the  whole  upper  part  of  his  head  down 
to  his  ears  and  his  eyebrows,  could  be  seen  a 
smooth,  red,  clean-shaven,  round  face,  with  a 
little  nose,  little  lips,  and  small,  clear  grey  eyes. 
Simplicity  and  weakness  of  character,  and  a  sort 
of  long-standing,  helpless  sorrow,  were  visible 
in  that  meek,  almost  childish  face ;  the  plump, 
white  little  hands  with  short  fingers  had  some- 
thing helpless,  incapable  about  them  too.  ...  I 
could  not  conceive  how  this  forlorn  old  man 
219 


THE   BRIGADIER 

could  once  have  been  an  officer,  could  have 
maintained  discipline,  have  given  his  com- 
mands— and  that,  too,  in  the  stern  days  of 
Catherine !  I  watched  him  ;  now  and  then  he 
puffed  out  his  cheeks  and  uttered  a  feeble 
whistle,  like  a  little  child  ;  sometimes  he  screwed 
up  his  eyes  painfully,  with  effort,  as  all  decrepit 
people  will.  Once  he  opened  his  eyes  wide 
and  lifted  them.  ,  .  .  They  stared  at  me  from 
out  of  the  depths  of  the  water — and  strangely 
touching  and  even  full  of  meaning  their  dejected 
glance  seemed  to  me. 


VII 

I  TRIED  to  begin  a  conversation  with  the 
brigadier  .  .  .  but  Narkiz  had  not  misin- 
formed me ;  the  poor  old  man  certainly  had 
become  weak  in  his  intellect.  He  asked  me 
my  surname,  and  after  repeating  his  inquiry 
twice,  pondered  and  pondered,  and  at  last 
brought  out :  *  Yes,  I  fancy  there  was  a  judge 
of  that  name  here.  Cucumber,  wasn't  there  a 
judge  about  here  of  that  name,  hey  ?  *  *  To  be 
sure  there  was,  Vassily  Fomitch,  your  honour,' 
responded  Cucumber,  who  treated  him  alto- 
gether as  a  child.  '  There  was,  certainly.  But 
let  me  have  your  hook ;  your  worm  must  have 
been  eaten  off.  .  .  .  Yes,  so  it  is.' 
*Did  you  know  the  Lomov  family?'  the 
220 


THE  BRIGADIER 

brigadier   suddenly   asked    me   in    a   cracked 
voice. 

*  What  Lomov  family  is  that  ? ' 

'  Why,  Fiodor  Ivanitch,  Yevstigney  Ivanitch, 
Alexey  Ivanitch  the  Jew,  and  Fedulia  Ivanovna 
the  plunderer,  .  .  ,  and  then,  too  .  .  / 

The  brigadier  suddenly  broke  off  and  looked 
down  confused. 

*  They  were  the  people  he  was  most  intimate 
with,'  Narkiz  whispered,  bending  towards  me ; 
*  it  was  through  them,  through  that  same  Alexey 
Ivanitch,  that  he  called  a  Jew,  and  through 
a  sister  of  Alexey  Ivanitch's,  Agrafena  Ivan- 
ovna, as  you  may  say,  that  he  lost  all  his  pro- 
perty.' 

*  What  are  you  saying  there  about  Agrafena 
Ivanovna  ? '  the  brigadier  called  out  suddenly, 
and  his  head  was  raised,  his  white  eyebrows 
were  frowning.  ...  *  You  'd  better  mind  !  And 
why  Agrafena,  pray?  Agrippina  Ivanovna — 
that 's  what  you  should  call  her.' 

*  There  —  there  —  there,  sir,'  Cucumber  was 
beginning  to  falter. 

*  Don't  you  know  the  verses  the  poet  Milonov 
wrote  about  her?'  the  old  man  went  on, 
suddenly  getting  into  a  state  of  excitement^ 
which  was  a  complete  surprise  to  me.  *  No 
hymeneal  lights  were  kindled,'  he  began  chant- 
ing, pronouncing  all  the  vowels  through  his 
nose,  giving  the  syllables  *  an,'  *  en,'  the  nasal 
sound  they  have  in  French  ;  and  it  was  strange 

221 


THE  BRIGADIER 

to  hear  this  connected  speech  from  his  h'psi 

*  No  torches  ,  .  .  No,  that 's  not  it : 

"  Not  vain  Corruption's  idols  frail 
Not  amaranth  nor  porphyry 
Rejoiced  their  hearts  ,  . 
One  thing  in  them  .  .  ." 

*  That  was  about  us.     Do  you  hear  ? 

"  One  thing  in  them  unquenchable, 
Subduing,  sweet,  desirable, 
To  nurse  their  mutual  flame  in  love  1 " 

And  you  talk  about  Agrafena ! ' 

Narkiz  chuckled  half-contemptuously,  half- 
indifferently.  *  What  a  queer  fish  it  is ! '  he 
said  to  himself.  But  the  brigadier  had  again 
relapsed  into  dejection,  the  rod  had  dropped 
from  his  hands  and  slipped  into  the  water. 


VIII 

*  Well,  to  my  thinking,  our  fishing  is  a  poor 
business,*  observed  Cucumber ;  *  the  fish,  see, 
don't  bite  at  all.  It's  got  fearfully  hot,  and 
there's  a  fit  of  "mencholy"  come  over  our 
gentleman.  It's  clear  we  must  be  going 
home  ;  that  will  be  best'  He  cautiously  drew 
out  of  his  pocket  a  tin  bottle  with  a  wooden 
stopper,  uncorked  it,  scattered  snuff  on  his  wrist, 
and  sniffed  it  up  in  both  nostrils  at  once.  .  .  . 
'Ah,  what  good  snuff!'  he  moaned,  as  he  re- 

222 


THE  BRIGADIER 

covered  himself.  *  It  almost  made  my  tooth 
ache !  Now,  my  dear  Vassily  Fomitch,  get  up 
— it's  time  to  be  off!' 

The  brigadier  got  up  from  the  bench. 

*  Do  you  live  far  from  here?'  I  asked 
Cucumber. 

*  No,  our  gentleman  lives  not  far  ,  .  .  it  won't 
be  as  much  as  a  mile.* 

*Will  you  allow  me  to  accompany  you?' 
I  said,  addressing  the  brigadier.  I  felt  dis- 
inclined to  let  him  go. 

He  looked  at  me,  and  with  that  peculiar, 
stately,  courteous,  and  rather  affected  smile, 
which — I  don't  know  how  it  is  with  others — 
to  me  always  suggests  powder,  French  full- 
skirted  coats  with  paste  buttons — the  eighteenth 
century,  in  fact — he  replied,  with  the  old- 
fashioned  drawl,  that  he  would  be  *  high-ly 
de-lighted'  .  .  .  and  at  once  sank  back  into 
his  former  condition  again.  The  grand  gentle- 
man of  the  old  Catherine  days  flickered  up  in 
him  for  an  instant  and  vanished. 

Narkiz  was  surprised  at  my  intention  ;  but 
I  paid  no  attention  to  the  disapproving  shake 
of  his  long-eared  cap,  and  walked  out  of  the 
garden  with  the  brigadier,  who  was  supported 
by  Cucumber.  The  old  man  moved  fairly 
quickly,  with  a  motion  as  though  he  were  on 
stilts. 


223 


THE   BRIGADIER 


IX 


We  walked  along  a  scarcely  trodden  path, 
through  a  grassy  glade  between  two  birch 
copses.  The  sun  was  blazing;  the  orioles 
called  to  each  other  in  the  green  thicket ;  corn- 
crakes chattered  close  to  the  path  ;  blue  butter- 
flies fluttered  in  crowds  about  the  white  and 
red  flowers  of  the  low-growing  clover ;  in  the 
perfectly  still  grass  bees  hung,  as  though  asleep, 
languidly  buzzing.  Cucumber  seemed  to  pull 
himself  together,  and  brightened  up ;  he  was 
afraid  of  Narkiz — he  lived  always  under  his 
eye  ;  I  was  a  stranger — a  new  comer — with  me 
he  was  soon  quite  at  home. 

*  Here's  our  gentleman,'  he  said  in  a  rapid 
flow ;  *  he 's  a  small  eater  and  no  mistake  !  but 
only  one  perch,  is  that  enough  for  him  ?  Un- 
less, your  honour,  you  would  like  to  contribute 
something?  Close  here  round  the  corner,  at 
the  little  inn,  there  are  first-rate  white  wheaten 
rolls.  And  if  so,  please  your  honour,  this  poor 
sinner,  too,  will  gladly  drink  on  this  occasion 
to  your  health,  and  may  it  be  of  long  years 
and  long  days.'  I  gave  him  a  little  silver, 
and  was  only  just  in  time  to  pull  away  my 
hand,  which  he  was  falling  upon  to  kiss.  He 
learned  that  I  was  a  sportsman,  and  fell  to 
talking  of  a  very  good  friend  of  his,  an  officer, 
who  had  a  *  Mindindenger '  Swedish  gun,  with  a 
224 


THE  BRIGADIER 

copper  stock,  just  like  a  cannon,  so  that  when 
you  fire  it  off  you  are  almost  knocked  sense- 
less— it  had  been  left  behind  by  the  French — 
and  a  dog — simply  one  of  Nature's  marvels! 
that  he  himself  had  always  had  a  great  passion 
for  the  chase,  and  his  priest  would  have  made 
no  trouble  about  it — he  used  in  fact  to  catch 
quails  with  him — but  the  ecclesiastical  superior 
had  pursued  him  with  endless  persecution  ;  'and 
as  for  Narkiz  Semyonitch,'  he  observed  in  a 
sing-song  tone,  *  if  according  to  his  notions  I  'm 
not  a  trustworthy  person — well,  what  I  say  is : 
he's  let  his  eyebrows  grow  till  he's  like  a 
woodcock,  and  he  fancies  all  the  sciences  are 
known  to  him.'  By  this  time  we  had  reached 
the  inn,  a  solitary  tumble-down,  one-roomed 
little  hut  without  backyard  or  outbuildings; 
an  emaciated  dog  lay  curled  up  under  the 
window;  a  hen  was  scratching  in  the  dust 
under  his  very  nose.  Cucumber  sat  the  briga- 
dier down  on  the  bank,  and  darted  instantly 
into  the  hut.  While  he  was  buying  the  rolls 
and  emptying  a  glass,  I  never  took  my  eyes 
off  the  brigadier,  who,  God  knows  why,  struck 
me  as  something  of  an  enigma.  In  the  life 
of  this  man — so  I  mused — there  must  cer- 
tainly have  been  something  out  of  the  ordinary. 
But  he,  it  seemed,  did  not  notice  me  at  all. 
He  was  sitting  huddled  up  on  the  bank,  and 
twisting  in  his  fingers  some  pinks  which  he 
had  gathered  in  my  friend's  garden.  Cucum- 
p  225 


THE  BRIGADIER 

ber  made  his  appearance,  at  last,  with  a  bundle 
of  rolls  in  his  hand ;  he  made  his  appearance, 
all  red  and  perspiring,  with  an  expression  of 
gleeful  surprise  on  his  face,  as  though  he  had 
just  seen  something  exceedingly  agreeable  and 
unexpected.  He  at  once  offered  the  brigadier 
a  roll  to  eat,  and  the  latter  at  once  ate  it.  We 
proceeded  on  our  way. 


On  the  strength  of  the  spirits  he  had  drunk, 
Cucumber  quite  'unbent,'  as  it  is  called.  He 
began  trying  to  cheer  up  the  brigadier,  who 
was  still  hurrying  forward  with  a  tottering 
motion  as  though  he  were  on  stilts.  'Why 
are  you  so  downcast,  sir,  and  hanging  your 
head?  Let  me  sing  you  a  song.  That'll 
cheer  you  up  in  a  minute.'  He  turned  to  me : 
*  Our  gentleman  is  very  fond  of  a  joke,  mercy 
on  us,  yes!  Yesterday,  what  did  I  see? — a 
peasant-woman  washing  a  pair  of  breeches 
on  the  platform,  and  a  great  fat  woman  she 
was,  and  he  stood  behind  her,  simply  all  of  a 
shake  with  laughter — yes,  indeed  !  ...  In  a 
minute,  allow  me :  do  you  know  the  song 
of  the  hare?  You  mustn't  judge  me  by  my 
looks ;  there 's  a  gypsy  woman  living  here  in 
the  town,  a  perfect  fright,  but  sings — 'pon  my 
soul !  one 's  ready  to  lie  down  and  die.'  He 
226 


THE  BRIGADIER 

opened  wide  his  moist  red  lips  and  began  sing- 
ing, his  head  on  one  side,  his  eyes  shut,  and  his 
beard  quivering : 

*  The  hare  beneath  the  bush  lies  still, 
The  hunters  vainly  scour  the  hill ; 
The  hare  lies  hid  and  holds  his  breath, 
His  ears  pricked  up,  he  lies  there  still 

Waiting  for  death. 
O  hunters  !  what  harm  have  I  done, 
To  vex  or  injure  you  ?    Although 
Among  the  cabbages  I  run, 
One  leaf  I  nibble — only  one, 
And  that 's  not  yours  1 
Oh,  nol» 

Cucumber    went    on    with    ever  -  increasing 
energy : 

*  Into  the  forest  dark  he  fled. 
His  tail  he  let  the  hunters  see  ; 

"  Excuse  me,  gentlemen,"  says  he, 
"  That  so  I  turn  my  back  on  you — 
I  am  not  yours  1 " ' 

Cucumber  was  not  singing  now  ...  he  was 
bellowing : 

*  The  hunters  hunted  day  and  night, 
And  still  the  hare  was  out  of  sight. 
So,  talking  over  his  misdeeds. 
They  ended  by  disputing  quite — 

Alas,  the  hare  is  not  for  us  I 

The  squint-eye  is  too  sharp  for  us  I ' 

The  first  two  lines  of  each  stanza  Cucumber 
sang  with  each  syllable  drawn  out ;  the  other 


THE  BRIGADIER 

three,  on  the  contrary,  very  briskly,  and 
accompanied  them  with  little  hops  and  shuffles 
of  his  feet ;  at  the  conclusion  of  each  verse  he 
cut  a  caper,  in  which  he  kicked  himself  with 
his  own  heels.  As  he  shouted  at  the  top  of 
his  voice :  *  The  squint-eye  is  too  sharp  for  us ! ' 
he  turned  a  somersault.  .  .  .  His  expectations 
were  fulfilled.  The  brigadier  suddenly  went 
off  into  a  thin,  tearful  little  chuckle,  and  laughed 
so  heartily  that  he  could  not  go  on,  and  stayed 
still  in  a  half-sitting  posture,  helplessly  slap- 
ping his  knees  with  his  hands.  I  looked  at  his 
face,  flushed  crimson,  and  convulsively  work- 
ing, and  felt  very  sorry  for  him  at  that  instant 
especially.  Encouraged  by  his  success,  Cucum- 
ber fell  to  capering  about  in  a  squatting  posi- 
tion, singing  the  refrain  of:  *  Shildi-budildi ! ' 
and  *  Natchiki-tchikaldi ! '  He  stumbled  at 
last  with  his  nose  in  the  dust.  .  . .  The  brigadier 
suddenly  ceased  laughing  and  hobbled  on. 


XI 


We  went  on  another  quarter  of  a  mile.  A 
little  village  came  into  sight  on  the  edge  of  a 
not  very  deep  ravine ;  on  one  side  stood  the 
*  lodge,'  with  a  half-ruined  roof  and  a  solitary 
chimney ;  in  one  of  the  two  rooms  of  this 
lodge  lived  the  brigadier.  The  owner  of  the 
village,  who  always  resided  in  Petersburg,  the 

2^8 


THE  BRIGADIER 

widow  of  the  civil  councillor  Lomov,  had — so 
I  learned  later — bestowed  this  little  nook  upon 
the  brigadier.  She  had  given  orders  that  he 
should  receive  a  monthly  pension,  and  had  also 
assigned  for  his  service  a  half-witted  serf-girl 
living  in  the  same  village,  who,  though  she 
barely  understood  human  speech,  was  yet 
capable,  in  the  lady's  opinion,  of  sweeping  a 
floor  and  cooking  cabbage-soup.  At  the  door 
of  the  lodge  the  brigadier  again  addressed  me 
with  the  same  eighteenth-century  smile :  would 
I  be  pleased  to  walk  into  his  *  apartement '  ? 
We  went  into  this  '  apartement.'  Everything 
in  it  was  exceedingly  filthy  and  poor,  so  filthy 
and  so  poor  that  the  brigadier,  noticing,  pro- 
bably, by  the  expression  of  my  face,  the  im- 
pression it  made  on  me,  observed,  shrugging 
his  shoulders,  and  half  closing  his  eyelids  : 
*Ce  n'est  pas  .  .  .  ceil  de  perdrix.'  .  .  .  What 
precisely  he  meant  by  this  remained  a  mystery 
to  me.  ,  .  .  When  I  addressed  him  in  French, 
I  got  no  reply  from  him  in  that  language.  Two 
objects  struck  me  especially  in  the  brigadier's 
abode :  a  large  officer's  cross  of  St.  George  in  a 
black  frame,  under  glass,  with  an  inscription 
in  an  old  -  fashioned  handwriting :  *  Received 
by  the  Colonel  of  the  Tchernigov  regiment, 
Vassily  Guskov,  for  the  storming  of  Prague  in 
the  year  1794';  and  secondly,  a  half-length 
portrait  in  oils  of  a  handsome,  black  -  eyed 
woman  with  a  long,  dark  face,  hair  turned 
229 


tHE  BRIGADIER 

up  high  and  powdered,  with  postiches  on  the 
temple  and  chin,  in  a  flowered,  low-cut  bodice, 
with  blue  frills,  the  style  of  1780.  The 
portrait  was  badly  painted,  but  was  probably 
a  good  likeness  ;  there  was  a  wonderful  look  of 
life  and  will,  something  extraordinarily  living 
and  resolute,  about  the  face.  It  was  not  look- 
ing at  the  spectator ;  it  was,  as  it  were,  turning 
away  and  not  smiling  ;  the  curve  of  the  thin 
nose,  the  regular  but  flat  lips,  the  almost 
unbroken  straight  line  of  the  thick  eyebrows, 
all  showed  an  imperious,  haughty,  fiery 
temper.  No  great  effort  was  needed  to  picture 
that  face  glowing  with  passion  or  with  rage. 
Just  below  the  portrait  on  a  little  pedestal 
stood  a  half-withered  bunch  of  simple  wild 
flowers  in  a  thick  glass  jar.  The  brigadier 
went  up  to  the  pedestal,  stuck  the  pinks  he 
was  carrying  into  the  jar,  and  turning  to  me, 
and  lifting  his  hand  in  the  direction  of  the 
portrait,  he  observed :  *  Agrippina  Ivanovna 
Teliegin,  by  birth  Lomov.'  The  words  of 
Narkiz  came  back  to  my  mind ;  and  I  looked 
with  redoubled  interest  at  the  expressive  and 
evil  face  of  the  woman  for  whose  sake  the 
brigadier  had  lost  all  his  fortune. 

*  You  took  part,  I  see,  sir,  in  the  storming  of 
Prague,'  I  began,  pointing  to  the  St  George 
cross,  'and  won  a  sign  of  distinction,  rare  at 
any  time,  but  particularly  so  then ;  you  must 
remember  Suvorov  ? ' 

230 


THE  BRIGADIER 

*  Alexander  Vassilitch  ?  '  the  brigadier 
answered,  after  a  brief  silence,  in  which  he 
seemed  to  be  pulling  his  thoughts  together ; 
'to  be  sure,  I  remember  him;  he  was  a  little, 
brisk  old  man.  Before  one  could  stir  a  finger, 
he'd  be  here  and  there  and  everywhere  (the 
brigadier  chuckled).  He  rode  into  Warsaw  on 
a  Cossack  horse ;  he  was  all  in  diamonds,  and 
he  says  to  the  Poles  :  "  I  Ve  no  watch,  I  forgot 
it  in  Petersburg — no  watch  !  "  and  they  shouted 
and  huzzaed  for  him.  Queer  chaps  !  Hey ! 
Cucumber !  lad  ! '  he  added  suddenly,  changing 
and  raising  his  voice  (the  deacon-buffoon  had 
remained  standing  at  the  door),  *  where  's  the 
rolls,  eh  ?  And  tell  Grunka  .  ,  ,  to  bring  some 
kvas ! ' 

*  Directly,  your  honour,*  I  heard  Cucumber's 
voice  reply.  He  handed  the  brigadier  the 
bundle  of  rolls,  and,  going  out  of  the  lodge, 
approached  a  dishevelled  creature  in  rags — 
the  half-witted  girl,  Grunka,  I  suppose — and 
as  far  as  I  could  make  out  through  the  dusty 
little  window,  proceeded  to  demand  kvas  from 
her — at  least,  he  several  times  raised  one  hand 
like  a  funnel  to  his  mouth,  and  waved  the  other 
in  our  direction. 


asi 


THE  BRIGADIER 


XII 


I  MADE  another  attempt  to  get  into  conversa- 
tion with  the  brigadier ;  but  he  was  evidently 
tired :  he  sank,  sighing  and  groaning,  on  the 
Httle  couch,  and  moaning,  *0y,  oy,  my  poor 
bones,  my  poor  bones,'  untied  his  garters.  I 
remember  I  wondered  at  the  time  how  a  man 
came  to  be  wearing  garters.  I  did  not  realise 
that  in  former  days  every  one  wore  them.  The 
brigadier  began  yawning  with  prolonged,  un- 
concealed yawns,  not  taking  his  drowsy  eyes 
off  me  all  the  time ;  so  very  little  children 
yawn.  The  poor  old  man  did  not  even  seem 
quite  to  understand  my  question.  .  .  *  And  he 
had  taken  Prague !  He,  sword  in  hand,  in  the 
smoke  and  the  dust — at  the  head  of  Suvorov's 
soldiers,  the  bullet-pierced  flag  waving  above 
him,  the  hideous  corpses  under  his  feet.  .  .  . 
He  ...  he !  Wasn't  it  wonderful !  But  yet 
I  could  not  help  fancying  that  there  had  been 
events  more  extraordinary  in  the  brigadier's 
life.  Cucumber  brought  white  kvas  in  an  iron 
jug ;  the  brigadier  drank  greedily — his  hands 
shook.  Cucumber  supported  the  bottom  of 
the  jug.  The  old  man  carefully  wiped  his 
toothless  mouth  with  both  hands — and  again 
staring  at  me,  fell  to  chewing  and  munching 
his  lips.  I  saw  how  it  was,  bowed,  and  went 
out  of  the  room. 

232 


THE  BRIGADIER 

*  Now  he  '11  have  a  nap,'  observed  Cucumber, 
coming  out  behind  me.  '  He  's  terribly  knocked 
up  to-day — he  went  to  the  grave  early  this 
morning.* 

*  To  whose  grave  ?  * 

*To  Agrafena  Ivanovna's,  to  pay  his  devo- 
tions. .  .  She  is  buried  in  our  parish  cemetery 
here;  it'll  be  four  miles  from  here,  Vassily 
Fomitch  visits  it  every  week  without  fail.  In- 
deed, it  was  he  who  buried  her  and  put  the 
fence  up  at  his  own  expense.* 

*  Has  she  been  dead  long  ?  * 

*  Well,  let 's  think — twenty  years  about.' 

*  Was  she  a  friend  of  his,  or  what  ? ' 

*  Her  whole  life,  you  may  say,  she  passed 
with  him  .  .  .  really.  I  myself,  I  must  own 
never  knew  the  lady,  but  they  do  say  ,  .  . 
what  there  was  between  them  .  .  .  well,  well, 
well !  Sir,'  the  deacon  added  hurriedly,  seeing 
I  had  turned  away,  *  wouldn't  you  like  to  give 
me  something  for  another  drop,  for  it 's  time 
I  was  home  in  my  hut  and  rolled  up  in  my 
blanket?' 

I  thought  it  useless  to  question  Cucumber 
further,  so  gave  him  a  few  coppers,  and  set 
off  homewards. 


233 


THE  BRIGADIER 


XIII 


At  home  I  betook  myself  for  further  informa- 
tion to  Narkiz.  He,  as  I  might  have  antici- 
pated, was  somewhat  unapproachable,  stood  a 
little  on  his  dignity,  expressed  his  surprise  that 
such  paltry  matters  could  *  interest  *  me,  and, 
finally,  told  me  what  he  knew.  I  heard  the 
following  details. 

Vassily  Fomitch  Guskov  had  become  ac- 
quainted with  Agrafena  Ivanovna  Teliegin 
at  Moscow  soon  after  the  suppression  of  the 
Polish  insurrection ;  her  husband  had  had  a 
post  under  the  governor-general,  and  Vassily 
Fomitch  was  on  furlough.  He  fell  in  love 
with  her  there  and  then,  but  did  not  leave 
the  army  at  once ;  he  was  a  man  of  forty 
with  no  family,  with  a  fortune.  Her  husband 
soon  after  died.  She  was  left  without  children, 
poor,  and  in  debt.  .  .  .  Vassily  Fomitch  heard 
of  her  position,  threw  up  the  service  (he  received 
the  rank  of  brigadier  on  his  retirement)  and 
sought  out  his  charming  widow,  who  was  not 
more  than  five-and-twenty,  paid  all  her  debts, 
redeemed  her  estate.  .  .  .  From  that  time  he 
had  never  parted  from  her,  and  finished  by 
living  altogether  in  her  house.  She,  too,  seems 
to  have  cared  for  him,  but  would  not  marry 
him.  *She  was  froward,  the  deceased  lady,' 
was  Narkiz's  comment  on  this :  '  My  liberty/ 
234 


The  brigadier 

she  would  say,  *  is  dearer  to  me  than  anything.' 
But  as  for  making  use  of  him — she  made  use 
of  him  '  in  every  possible  way/  and  whatever 
money  he  had,  he  dragged  to  her  like  an  ant. 
But  the  frowardness  of  Agrafena  Ivanovna  at 
times  assumed  extreme  proportions ;  she  was 
not  of  a  mild  temper,  and  somewhat  too  ready 
with  her  hands. .  ,  .  Once  she  pushed  her  page- 
boy down  the  stairs,  and  he  went  and  broke 
two  of  his  ribs  and  one  leg.  .  .  .  Agrafena 
Ivanovna  was  frightened  .  .  she  promptly 
ordered  the  page  to  be  shut  up  in  the  lumber- 
room,  and  she  did  not  leave  the  house  nor  give  up 
the  key  of  the  room  to  any  one,  till  the  moans 
within  had  ceased.  .  .  .  The  page  was  secretly 
buried.  .  .  .  'And  had  it  been  in  the  Empress 
Catherine's  time,*  Narkiz  added  in  a  whisper, 
bending  down,  '  maybe  the  affair  would  have 
ended  there — many  such  deeds  were  hidden 
under  a  bushel  in  those  days,  but  as  .  .  /  here 
Narkiz  drew  himself  up  and  raised  his  voice  :  *as 
our  righteous  Tsar  Alexander  the  Blessed  was 
reigning  then  .  .  .  well,  a  fuss  was  made.  .  .  . 
A  trial  followed,  the  body  was  dug  up  .  .  .  signs 
of  violence  were  found  on  it  .  .  .  and  a  great 
to-do  there  was.  And  what  do  you  think  ? 
Vassily  Fomitch  took  it  all  on  himself  "  I,"  said 
he,  "  am  responsible  for  it  all ;  it  was  I  pushed 
him  down,  and  I  too  shut  him  up."  Well,  of 
course,  all  the  judges  then,  and  the  lawyers 
and  the  police  .  .  .  fell  on  him  directly  .  .  • 
23S 


tHE  BRIGADIER 

fell  on  him  and  never  let  hi'm  go  ...  I  can 
assure  you  .  .  .  till  the  last  farthing  was  out 
of  his  purse.  They  'd  leave  him  in  peace  for 
a  while,  and  then  attack  him  again.  Down  to 
the  very  time  when  the  French  came  into 
Russia  they  were  worrying  at  him,  and  only 
dropped  him  then.  Well,  he  managed  to  pro- 
vide for  Agrafena  Ivanovna — to  be  sure,  he 
saved  her — that  one  must  say.  Well,  and 
afterwards,  up  to  her  death,  indeed,  he  lived 
with  her,  and  they  do  say  she  led  him  a  pretty 
dance — the  brigadier,  that  is  ;  sent  him  on  foot 
from  Moscow  into  the  country — by  God,  she 
did — to  get  her  rents  in,  I  suppose.  It  was  on 
her  account,  on  account  of  this  same  Agrafena 
Ivanovna — he  fought  a  duel  with  the  English 
milord  Hugh  Hughes ;  and  the  English  milord 
was  forced  to  make  a  formal  apology  too.  But 
later  on  the  brigadier  went  down  hill  more  and 
more.  .  .  .  Well,  and  now  he  can't  be  reckoned 
a  man  at  all.' 

'Who  was  that  Alexey  Ivanitch  the  Jew,' 
I  asked,  'through  whom  he  was  brought  to 
ruin  ? ' 

*  Oh,  the  brother  of  Agrafena  Ivanovna.  A 
grasping  creature,  Jewish  indeed.  He  lent  his 
sister  money  at  interest,  and  Vassily  Fomitch 
was  her  security.  He  had  to  pay  for  it  too  .  ,  . 
pretty  heavily !  * 

*  And  Fedulia  Ivanovna  the  plunderer — who 
was  she  ? ' 

ftS6 


THE  BRIGADIER 


'  Her  sister  too  .  .  .  and  a  sharp  one  too,  as 
sharp  as  a  lance.    A  terrible  woman ! ' 


XIV 

'What  a  place  to  find  a  Werter!*  I  thought 
next  day,  as  I  set  off  again  towards  the 
brigadier's  dwelling.  I  was  at  that  time  very 
young,  and  that  was  possibly  why  I  thought 
it  my  duty  not  to  believe  in  the  lasting  nature 
of  love.  Still,  I  was  impressed  and  somewhat 
puzzled  by  the  story  I  had  heard,  and  felt  an 
intense  desire  to  stir  up  the  old  man,  to  make 
him  talk  freely.  '  I  '11  first  refer  to  Suvorov  again,* 
so  I  resolved  within  myself;  *  there  must  be 
some  spark  of  his  former  fire  hidden  within 
him  still  .  .  .  and  then,  when  he 's  warmed  up, 
I  '11  turn  the  conversation  on  that  .  .  .  what 's 
her  name  ?  .  .  .  Agrafena  Ivanovna.  A  queer 
name  for  a  "  Charlotte  " — Agrafena ! ' 

I  found  my  Werter-Guskov  in  the  middle  of 
a  tiny  kitchen -garden,  a  few  steps  from  the 
lodge,  near  the  old  framework  of  a  never- 
finished  hut,  overgrown  with  nettles.  On  the 
mildewed  upper  beams  of  this  skeleton  hut 
some  miserable  -  looking  turkey  poults  were 
scrambling,  incessantly  slipping  and  flapping 
their  wings  and  cackling.  There  was  some 
poor  sort  of  green  stuff  growing  in  two  or  three 
borders.  The  brigadier  had  just  pulled  a  young 
237 


THE  BRIGADIER 

carrot  out  of  the  ground,  and  rubbing  it  under 
his  arm  *  to  clean  it,*  proceeded  to  chew  its  thin 
tail.  ...  I  bowed  to  him,  and  inquired  after 
his  health. 

He  obviously  did  not  recognise  me,  though 
he  returned  my  greeting — that  is  to  say,  touched 
his  cap  with  his  hand,  though  without  leaving 
off  munching  the  carrot. 

'You  didn't  go  fishing  to-day?'  I  began,  in 
the  hope  of  recalling  myself  to  his  memory  by 
this  question. 

*  To-day  ? '  he  repeated  and  pondered  .  .  , 
while  the  carrot,  stuck  into  his  mouth,  grew 
shorter  and  shorter.  'Why,  I  suppose  it's 
Cucumber  fishing  I  .  ,  .  But  I  'm  allowed  to, 
too.' 

*  Of  course,  of  course,  most  honoured  Vassily 
Fomitch.  ...  I  didn't  mean  that.  .  .  .  But 
aren't  you  hot  .  .  .  like  this  in  the  sun.' 

The  brigadier  was  wearing  a  thick  wadded 
dressing-gown. 

*  Eh  ?  Hot  ? '  he  repeated  again,  as  though 
puzzled  over  the  question,  and,  having  finally 
swallowed  the  carrot,  he  gazed  absently  up- 
wards. 

*  Would  you  care  to  step  into  my  apartement?' 
he  said  suddenly.  The  poor  old  man  had,  it 
seemed,  only  this  phrase  still  left  him  always 
at  his  disposal. 

We  went  out  of  the  kitchen-garden  .  .  .  but 
there  involuntarily  I  stopped  short.    Between  us 
238 


THE  BRIGADIER 

and  the  lodge  stood  a  huge  bull.  With  his  head 
down  to  the  ground,  and  a  malignant  gleam 
in  his  eyes,  he  was  snorting  heavilyand  furiously, 
and  with  a  rapid  movement  of  one  fore-leg,  he 
tossed  the  dust  up  in  the  air  with  his  broad 
cleft  hoof,  lashed  his  sides  with  his  tail,  and 
suddenly  backing  a  little,  shook  his  shaggy 
neck  stubbornly,  and  bellowed — not  loud,  but 
plaintively,  and  at  the  same  time  menacingly. 
I  was,  I  confess,  alarmed ;  but  Vassily  Fomitch 
stepped  forward  with  perfect  composure,  and 
saying  in  a  stern  voice,  *Now  then,  country 
bumpkin,'  shook  his  handkerchief  at  him.  The 
bull  backed  again,  bowed  his  horns  .  .  .  sud- 
denly rushed  to  one  side  and  ran  away,  wagging 
his  head  from  side  to  side. 

*  There's  no  doubt  he  took  Prague,'  I 
thought. 

We  went  into  the  room.  The  brigadier 
pulled  his  cap  off  his  hair,  which  was  soaked 
with  perspiration,  ejaculated,  *  Fa  !  '  .  .  , 
squatted  down  on  the  edge  of  a  chair  .  .  . 
bowed  his  head  gloomily.  .  .  . 

*  I  have  come  to  you,  Vassily  Fomitch,'  I 
began  my  diplomatic  approaches, '  because,  as 
you  have  served  under  the  leadership  of  the 
great  Suvorov — have  taken  part  altogether  in 
such  important  events — it  would  be  very 
interesting  for  me  to  hear  some  particulars  of 
your  past.' 

The  brigadier  stared  at  me.  .  .  .  His  face 
239 


THE  BRIGADIER 

kindled  strangely — I  began  to  expect,  if  not 
a  story,  at  least  some  word  of  approval,  of 
sympathy.  .  .  . 

'  But  I,  sir,  must  be  going  to  die  soon,'  he 
said  in  an  undertone. 

I  was  utterly  nonplussed. 

*Why,  Vassily  Fomitch,*  I  brought  out  at 
last,  *  what  makes  you  .  .  .  suppose  that  ? ' 

The  brigadier  suddenly  flung  his  arms 
violently  up  and  down. 

*  Because,  sir  .  .  .  I,  as  maybe  you  know  . . . 
often  in  my  dreams  see  Agrippina  Ivan- 
ovna  —  Heaven's  peace  be  with  her !  —  and 
never  can  I  catch  her ;  I  am  always  running 
after  her — but  cannot  catch  her.  But  last 
night — I  dreamed — she  was  standing,  as  it 
were,  before  me,  half-turned  away,  and  laugh- 
ing. ...  I  ran  up  to  her  at  once  and  caught 
her  .  .  .  and  she  seemed  to  turn  round  quite 
and  said  to  me :  "  Well,  Vassinka,  now  you 
have  caught  me." ' 

*What  do  you  conclude  from  that,  Vassily 
Fomitch  ? ' 

*  Why,  sir,  I  conclude :  it  has  come,  that  we 
shall  be  together.  And  glory  to  God  for  it,  I 
tell  you  ;  glory  be  to  God  Almighty,  the  Father, 
the  Son,  and  the  Holy  Ghost  (the  brigadier 
fell  into  a  chant) :  as  it  was  in  the  beginning, 
is  now  and  ever  shall  be.  Amen  ! ' 

The  brigadier  began  crossing  himself.    I  could 
get  nothing  more  out  of  him,  so  I  went  away. 
240 


XV 


The  next  day  my  friend  arrived.  ,  .  I  men- 
tioned the  brigadier,  and  my  visits  to  him,  .  .  . 
*  Oh  yes !  of  course !  I  know  his  story/  an- 
swered my  friend  ;  *  I  know  Madame  Lomov 
very  well,  the  privy  councillor's  widow,  by 
whose  favour  he  obtained  a  home  here.  Oh, 
wait  a  minute ;  I  believe  there  must  be  pre- 
served here  his  letter  to  the  privy  councillor's 
widow  ;  it  was  on  the  strength  of  that  letter  that 
she  assigned  him  his  little  cot/  My  friend  rum- 
maged among  his  papers  and  actually  found 
the  brigadier's  letter.  Here  it  is  word  for 
word,  with  the  omission  of  the  mistakes  in 
spelling.  The  brigadier,  like  every  one  of  his 
epoch,  was  a  little  hazy  in  that  respect.  But  to 
preserve  these  errors  seemed  unnecessary ;  his 
letter  bears  the  stamp  of  his  age  without  them. 

*  Honoured  Madam,  Raissa  Pavlovna! — 
On  the  decease  of  my  friend,  and  your  aunt, 
I  had  the  happiness  of  addressing  to  you  two 
letters,  the  first  on  the  first  of  June,  the  second 
on  the  sixth  of  July,  of  the  year  1815,  while  she 
expired  on  the  sixth  of  May  in  that  year  ;  in 
them  I  discovered  to  you  the  feelings  of  my 
soul  and  of  my  heart,  which  were  crushed  under 
deadly  wrongs,  and  they  reflected  in  full  my 
bitter  despair,  in  truth  deserving  of  commisera- 
Q  241 


THE   BRIGADIER 

tion  ;  both  letters  were  despatched  by  the  im- 
perial mail  registered,  and  hence  I  cannot  con- 
ceive that  they  have  not  been  perused  by  your 
eye.  By  the  genuine  candour  of  my  letters,  I 
had  counted  upon  winning  your  benevolent 
attention  ;  but  the  compassionate  feelings  of 
your  heart  were  far  removed  from  me  in  my 
woe !  Left  on  the  loss  of  my  one  only  friend, 
Agrippina  Ivanovna,  in  the  most  distressed  and 
poverty-stricken  circumstances,  I  rested,  by  her 
instructions,  all  my  hopes  on  your  bounty  ;  she, 
aware  of  her  end  approaching,  said  to  me  in 
these  words,  as  it  were  from  the  grave,  and 
never  can  I  forget  them  :  "  My  friend,  I  have 
been  your  serpent,  and  am  guilty  of  all  your 
unhappiness.  I  feel  how  much  you  have  sacri- 
ficed for  me,  and  in  return  I  leave  you  in  a 
disastrous  and  truly  destitute  situation  ;  on  my 
death  have  recourse  to  Raifssa  Pavlovna  " — that 
is,  to  you — "and  implore  her  aid,  invite  her 
succour!  She  has  a  feeling  heart,  and  I  have 
confidence  in  her,  that  she  will  not  leave  you 
forlorn."  Honoured  madam,  let  me  call  to 
witness  the  all-high  Creator  of  the  world  that 
those  were  her  words,  and  I  am  speaking  with 
her  tongue ;  and,  therefore,  trusting  firmly  in 
your  goodness,  to  you  first  of  all  I  addressed 
myself  with  my  open-hearted  and  candid 
letters  ;  but  after  protracted  expectation,  re- 
ceiving no  reply  to  them,  I  could  not  conceive 
otherwise  than  that  your  benevolent  heart 
242 


THE  BRIGADIER 

had  left  me  without  attention !  Such  your 
unfavourable  disposition  towards  me,  reduced 
me  to  the  depths  of  despair — whither,  and  to 
whom,  was  I  to  turn  in  my  misfortune  I  knew 
not ;  my  soul  was  troubled,  my  intellect  went 
astray ;  at  last,  for  the  completion  of  my  ruin, 
it  pleased  Providence  to  chastise  me  in  a  still 
more  cruel  manner,  and  to  turn  my  thoughts 
to  your  deceased  aunt,  Fedulia  Ivanovna,  sister 
of  Agrippina  Ivanovna,  one  in  blood,  but  not  one 
in  heart !  Having  present  to  myself,  before  my 
mind's  eye,  that  I  had  been  for  twenty  years 
devoted  to  the  whole  family  of  your  kindred, 
the  Lomovs,  especially  to  Fedulia  Ivanovna, 
who  never  called  Agrippina  Ivanovna  otherwise 
than  "my  heart's  precious  treasure,"  and  me 
"the  most  honoured  and  zealous  friend  of  our 
family"  ;  picturing  all  the  above,  among  abun- 
dant tears  and  sighs  in  the  stillness  of  sorrowful 
night  watches,  I  thought:  "Come,  brigadier! 
so,  it  seems,  it  is  to  be  ! "  and,  addressing  my- 
self by  letter  to  the  said  Fedulia  Ivanovna,  I 
received  a  positive  assurance  that  she  would 
share  her  last  crumb  with  me  !  The  presents 
sent  on  by  me,  more  than  five  hundred  roubles' 
worth  in  value,  were  accepted  with  supreme 
satisfaction ;  and  afterwards  the  money  too 
which  I  brought  with  me  for  my  maintenance, 
Fedulia  Ivanovna  was  pleased,  on  the  pretext 
of  guarding  it,  to  take  into  her  care,  to  the 
which,  to  gratify  her,  I  offered  no  opposition. 
243 


THE   BRIGADIER 

If  you  ask  me  whence,  and  on  what  ground 
I  conceived  such  confidence  —  to  the  above, 
madam,  there  is  but  one  reply :  she  was  sister 
of  Agrippina  Ivanovna,  and  a  member  of  the 
Lomov  family !  But  alas  and  alas !  all  the 
money  aforesaid  I  was  very  soon  deprived  of, 
and  the  hopes  which  I  had  rested  on  Fedulia 
Ivanovna — that  she  would  share  her  last  crumb 
with  me — turned  out  to  be  empty  and  vain  ; 
on  the  contrary,  the  said  Fedulia  Ivanovna 
enriched  herself  with  my  property.  To  wit,  on 
her  saint's  day,  the  fifth  of  February,  I  brought 
her  fifty  roubles'  worth  of  green  French 
material,  at  five  roubles  the  yard ;  I  myself 
received  of  all  that  was  promised  five  roubles' 
worth  of  white  piqu^  for  a  waistcoat  and  a 
muslin  handkerchief  for  my  neck,  which  gifts 
were  purchased  in  my  presence,  as  I  was 
aware,  with  my  own  money — and  that  was  all 
that  I  profited  by  Fedulia  Ivanovna's  bounty ! 
So  much  for  the  last  crumb!  And  I  could 
further,  in  all  sincerity,  disclose  the  malignant 
doings  of  Fedulia  Ivanovna  to  me ;  and  also 
my  expenses,  exceeding  all  reason,  as,  among 
the  rest,  for  sweetmeats  and  fruits,  of  which 
Fedulia  Ivanovna  was  exceedingly  fond ; — but 
upon  all  this  I  am  silent,  that  you  may  not 
take  such  disclosures  against  the  dead  in  bad 
part ;  and  also,  seeing  that  God  has  called  her 
before    His  judgment   seat  —  and   all    that    I 

suffered  at  her  hands  is  blotted  out  from  my 
244 


THE  BRIGADIER 

heart — and  I,  as  a  Christian,  forgave  her  long 
ago,  and  pray  to  God  to  forgive  her ! 

'But,  honoured  madam,  RaYssa  Pavlovna! 
Surely  you  will  not  blame  me  for  that  I  was 
a  true  and  loyal  friend  of  your  family,  and  that 
I  loved  Agrippina  Ivanovna  with  a  love  so  great 
and  so  insurmountable  that  I  sacrificed  to  her 
my  life,  my  honour,  and  all  my  fortune !  that 
I  was  utterly  in  her  hands,  and  hence  could  not 
dispose  of  myself  nor  of  my  property,  and  she 
disposed  at  her  will  of  me  and  also  of  my 
estate !  It  is  known  to  you  also  that,  owing  to 
her  action  with  her  servant,  I  suffer,  though 
innocent,  a  deadly  wrong — this  affair  I  brought 
after  her  death  before  the  senate,  before  the 
sixth  department — it  is  still  unsettled  now — in 
consequence  of  which  I  was  made  accomplice 
with  her,  my  estate  put  under  guardianship, 
and  I  am  still  lying  under  a  criminal  charge ! 
In  my  position,  at  my  age,  such  disgrace  is 
intolerable  to  me;  and  it  is  only  left  me  to 
console  my  heart  with  the  mournful  reflection 
that  thus,  even  after  Agrippina  Ivanovna's 
death,  I  suffer  for  her  sake,  and  so  prove  my 
immutable  love  and  loyal  gratitude  to  her ! 

*  In  my  letters,  above  mentioned,  to  you,  I 
gave  you  an  account  with  every  detail  of 
Agrippina  Ivanovna's  funeral,  and  what  masses 
were  read  for  her — my  affection  and  love  for  her 
spared  no  outlay  !  For  all  the  aforesaid,  and  for 
the  forty  days'  requiems,  and  the  reading  of  the 
245 


THE   BRIGADIER 

psalter  six  weeks  after  for  her  (in  addition  to 
above,  fifty  roubles  of  mine  were  lost,  which 
were  given  as  security  for  payment  for  the 
stone,  of  which  I  sent  you  a  description) — on 
all  the  aforesaid  was  spent  of  my  money  seven 
hundred  and  fifty  roubles,  in  which  is  included, 
by  way  of  donation  to  the  church,  a  hundred 
and  fifty  roubles. 

*  In  the  goodness  of  your  heart,  hear  the  cry 
of  a  desperate  man,  crushed  beneath  a  load  of 
the  cruelest  calamities  !  Only  your  commisera- 
tion and  humanity  can  restore  the  life  of  a 
ruined  man  !  Though  living — in  the  suffering 
of  my  heart  and  soul  I  am  as  one  dead  ;  dead 
when  I  think  what  I  was,  and  what  I  am  ;  I 
was  a  soldier,  and  served  my  country  in  all 
fidelity  and  uprightness,  as  is  the  bounden  duty 
of  a  loyal  Russian  and  faithful  subject,  and  was 
rewarded  with  the  highest  honours,  and  had  a 
fortune  befitting  my  birth  and  station  ;  and  now 
I  must  cringe  and  beg  for  a  morsel  of  dry 
bread  ;  dead  above  all  I  am  when  I  think  what 
a  friend  I  have  lost  .  .  ,  and  what  is  life  to 
me  after  that  ?  But  there  is  no  hastening  one's 
end,  and  the  earth  will  not  open,  but  rather 
seems  turned  to  stone!  And  so  I  call  upon 
you,  in  the  benevolence  of  your  heart,  hush  the 
talk  of  the  people,  do  not  expose  yourself  to 
universal  censure,  that  for  all  my  unbounded 
devotion  I  have  not  where  to  lay  my  head  ;  con- 
found them  by  your  bounty  to  me,  turn  the 
246 


THE  BRIGADIER 

tongues  of  the  evil  speakers  and  slanderers  to 
glorifying  your  good  works — and  I  make  bold 
in  all  humility  to  add,  comfort  in  the  grave 
your  most  precious  aunt,  Agrippina  Ivanovna, 
who  can  never  be  forgotten,  and  who  for  your 
speedy  succour,  in  answer  to  my  sinful  prayers, 
will  spread  her  protecting  wings  about  your 
head,  and  comfort  in  his  declining  days  a  lonely 
old  man,  who  had  every  reason  to  expect  a 
different  fate !  .  .  .  And,  with  the  most  profound 
respect,  I  have  the  honour  to  be,  dear  madam, 
your  most  devoted  servant, 

Vassily  Guskov, 
Brigadier  and  cavalier' 

Several  years  later  I  paid  another  visit  to  my 
friend's  little  place.  .  .  .  Vassily  Fomitch  had 
long  been  dead  ;  he  died  soon  after  I  made  his 
acquaintance.  Cucumber  was  still  flourishing. 
He  conducted  me  to  the  tomb  of  Agrafena 
Ivanovna.  An  iron  railing  enclosed  a  large 
slab  with  a  detailed  and  enthusiastically  lauda- 
tory epitaph  on  the  deceased  woman ;  and 
there,  beside  it,  as  it  were  at  her  feet,  could  be 
seen  a  little  mound  with  a  slanting  cross  on  it ; 
the  servant  of  God,  the  brigadier  and  cavalier, 
Vassily  Guskov,  lay  under  this  mound.  .  .  . 
His  ashes  found  rest  at  last  beside  the  ashes  of 
the  creature  he  had  loved  with  such  unbounded, 
almost  undying,  love. 
1867. 

247 


PYETUSHKOV 

I 

In  the  year  182-  .  .  .  there  was  living  in  the 

town  of  O the  lieutenant  Ivan  Afanasiitch 

Pyetushkov.  He  was  born  of  poor  parents, 
was  left  an  orphan  at  five  years  old,  and  came 
into  the  charge  of  a  guardian.  Thanks  to  this 
guardian,  he  found  himself  with  no  property 
whatever ;  he  had  a  hard  struggle  to  make  both 
ends  meet.  He  was  of  medium  height,  and 
stooped  a  little ;  he  had  a  thin  face,  covered 
with  freckles,  but  rather  pleasing ;  light  brown 
hair,  grey  eyes,  and  a  timid  expression ;  his 
low  forehead  was  furrowed  with  fine  wrinkles. 
Pyetushkov's  whole  life  had  been  uneventful 
in  the  extreme ;  at  close  upon  forty  he  was 
still  youthful  and  inexperienced  as  a  child.  He 
was  shy  with  acquaintances,  and  exceedingly 
mild  in  his  manner  with  persons  over  whose 
lot  he  could  have  exerted  control.  .  .  . 

People  condemned  by  fate  to  a  monotonous 

and  cheerless  existence  often  acquire  all  sorts 

of  little  habits  and  preferences.      Pyetushkov 

liked  to  have  a  new  white  roll  with  his  tea  every 

248 


PYETUSHKOV 

morning.  He  could  not  do  without  this  dainty. 
But  behold  one  morning  his  servant,  Onisim, 
handed  him,  on  a  blue-sprigged  plate,  instead 
of  a  roll,  three  dark  red  rusks. 

Pyetushkov  at  once  asked  his  servant,  with 
some  indignation,  what  he  meant  by  it. 

'  The  rolls  have  all  been  sold  out,'  answered 
Onisim,  a  native  of  Petersburg,  who  had  been 
flung  by  some  queer  freak  of  destiny  into  the 
very  wilds  of  south  Russia. 

*  Impossible  ! '  exclaimed  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 

*  Sold  out,'  repeated  Onisim ;  '  there's  a  break- 
fast at  the  Marshal's,  so  they  've  all  gone  there, 
you  know.* 

Onisim  waved  his  hand  in  the  air,  and  thrust 
his  right  foot  forward. 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  walked  up  and  down  the 
room,  dressed,  and  set  off  himself  to  the  baker's 
shop.     This  establishment,  the  only  one  of  the 

kind  in  the  town  of  O ,  had  been  opened 

ten  years  before  by  a  German  immigrant,  had 
in  a  short  time  begun  to  flourish,  and  was  still 
flourishing  under  the  guidance  of  his  widow,  a 
fat  woman. 

Pyetushkov  tapped  at  the  window.  The  fat 
woman  stuck  her  unhealthy,  flabby,  sleepy 
countenance  out  of  the  pane  that  opened. 

*  A  roll,  if  you  please,'  Pyetushkov  said 
amiably. 

'  The  rolls  are  all  gone,'  piped  the  fat  woman. 

*  Haven't  you  any  rolls  ?  * 

249 


PYETUSHKOV 

•No.' 

*  How  *s  that  ? — really !  I  take  rolls  from  you 
every  day,  and  pay  for  them  regularly.* 

The  woman  stared  at  him  in  silence.  *  Take 
twists/  she  said  at  last,  yawning ;  *  or  a 
scone.' 

*  I  don't  like  them,'  said  Pyetushkov,  and  he 
felt  positively  hurt. 

*  As  you  please,'  muttered  the  fat  woman,  and 
she  slammed  to  the  window-pane. 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  was  quite  unhinged  by  his 
intense  vexation.  In  his  perturbation  he  crossed 
to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  gave  himself 
up  entirely,  like  a  child,  to  his  displeasure. 

*  Sir ! ' . . .  he  heard  a  rather  agreeable  female 
voice;  *sir!' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  raised  his  eyes.  From  the 
open  pane  of  the  bakehouse  window  peeped  a 
girl  of  about  seventeen,  holding  a  white  roll  in 
her  hand.  She  had  a  full  round  face,  rosy 
cheeks,  small  hazel  eyes,  rather  a  turn-up  nose, 
fair  hair,  and  magnificent  shoulders.  Her 
features  suggested  good-nature,  laziness,  and 
carelessness. 

*  Here 's  a  roll  for  you,  sir,'  she  said,  laughing, 
'  I  'd  taken  for  myself;  but  take  it,  please,  I  '11 
give  it  up  to  you.' 

'  I  thank  you  most  sincerely.    Allow  me  .  • ,' 
Pyetushkov  began  fumbling  in  his  pocket 

*  No,  no !  you  are  welcome  to  it* 
She  closed  the  window-pane. 

250 


PYETUSHKOV 

Pyetushkov  arrived  home  in  a  perfectly  agree- 
able frame  of  mind. 

'  You  couldn't  get  any  rolls,'  he  said  to  his 
Onisim  ;  *  but  here,  I  've  got  one,  do  you  see?' 

Onisim  gave  a  bitter  laugh. 

The  same  day,  in  the  evening,  as  Ivan  Afan- 
asiitch  was  undressing,  he  asked  his  servant, 
'  Tell  me,  please,  my  lad,  what 's  the  girl  like 
at  the  baker's,  hey  ? ' 

Onisim  looked  away  rather  gloomily,  and 
responded,  *  What  do  you  want  to  know  for  ? ' 

*  Oh,  nothing,'  said  Pyetushkov,  taking  off  his 
boots  with  his  own  hands. 

*  Well,  she 's  a  fine  girl  I  *  Onisim  observed 
condescendingly. 

*Yes,  .  .  .  she's  not  bad-looking,'  said  Ivan 
Afanasiitch,  also  looking  away.  *  And  what's 
her  name,  do  you  know  ? ' 

*  Vassilissa.' 

*  And  do  you  know  her  ?  * 

Onisim  did  not  answer  for  a  minute  or  two. 

*  We  know  her.' 

Pyetushkov  was  on  the  point  of  opening  his 
mouth  again,  but  he  turned  over  on  the  other 
side  and  fell  asleep. 

Onisim  went  out  into  the  passage,  took  a 
pinch  of  snuff,  and  gave  his  head  a  violent 
shake. 

The  next  day,  early  in  the  morning,  Pyetush- 
kov called  for  his  clothes.  Onisim  brought  him 
his  everyday  coat — an  old  grass-coloured  coat, 
251 


PYETUSHKOV 

With  huge  striped  epaulettes.  Pyetushkov  gazed 
a  long  while  at  Onisim  without  speaking,  then 
told  him  to  bring  him  his  new  coat.  Onisim, 
with  some  surprise,  obeyed.  Pyetushkov 
dressed,  and  carefully  drew  on  his  chamois- 
leather  gloves. 

*  You  needn't  go  to  the  baker's  to-day,'  said  he 
with  some  hesitation  ;  *  I  'm  going  myself,  .  .  . 
it 's  on  my  way.' 

*  Yes,  sir,'  responded  Onisim,  as  abruptly  as 
if  some  one  had  just  given  him  a  shove  from 
behind. 

Pyetushkov  set  off,  reached  the  baker's  shop, 
tapped  at  the  window.  The  fat  woman  opened 
the  pane. 

*  Give  me  a  roll,  please,'  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
articulated  slowly. 

The  fat  woman  stuck  out  an  arm,  bare  to  the 
shoulder — a  huge  arm,  more  like  a  leg  than  an 
arm — and  thrust  the  hot  bread  just  under  his 
nose, 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  stood  some  time  under  the 
window,  walked  once  or  twice  up  and  down  the 
street,  glanced  into  the  courtyard,  and  at  last, 
ashamed  of  his  childishness,  returned  home  with 
the  roll  in  his  hand.  He  felt  ill  at  ease  the 
whole  day,  and  even  in  the  evening,  contrary 
to  his  habit,  did  not  drop  into  conversation  with 
Onisim. 

The  next  morning  it  was  Onisim  who  went 
for  the  roll. 

252 


PYETUSHKOV 


II 


Some  weeks  went  by.  Ivan  Afanasiitch  had 
completely  forgotten  Vassilissa,  and  chatted  in 
a  friendly  way  with  his  servant  as  before.  One 
fine  morning  there  came  to  see  him  a  certain 
Bublitsyn,  an  easy-mannered  and  very  agree- 
able young  man.  It  is  true  he  sometimes  hardly 
knew  himself  what  he  was  talking  about,  and 
was  always,  as  they  say,  a  little  wild  ;  but  all  the 
same  he  had  the  reputation  of  being  an  exceed- 
ingly agreeable  person  to  talk  to.  He  smoked 
a  great  deal  with  feverish  eagerness,  with  lifted 
eyebrows  and  contracted  chest — smoked  with 
an  expression  of  intense  anxiety,  or,  one  might 
rather  say,  with  an  expression  as  though,  let 
him  have  this  one  more  puff  at  his  pipe,  and  in 
a  minute  he  would  tell  you  some  quite  unex- 
pected piece  of  news ;  at  times  he  would  even 
give  a  grunt  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  while  him- 
self sucking  at  his  pipe,  as  though  he  had  sud- 
denly recollected  something  extraordinarily 
amusing  or  important,  then  he  would  open  his 
mouth,  let  off  a  few  rings  of  smoke,  and  utter 
the  most  commonplace  remarks,  or  even  keep 
silence  altogether.  After  gossiping  a  little  with 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  about  the  neighbours,  about 
horses,  the  daughters  of  the  gentry  around,  and 
other  such  edifying  topics,  Mr.  Bublitsyn  sud- 
denly winked,  pulled  up  his  shock  of  hair,  and, 
253 


PYETUSHKOV 

with  a  sly  smile,  approached  the  remarkably 
dim  looking-glass  which  was  the  solitary  orna- 
ment of  Ivan  Afanasiitch's  room. 

*  There 's  no  denying  the  fact/  he  pronounced, 
stroking  his  light  brown  whiskers,  *  we  Ve  got 
girls  here  that  beat  any  of  your  Venus  of  Medicis 
hollow.  .  .  .  Have  you  seen  Vassilissa,  the  baker 
girl,  for  instance  ?  *  .  .  .  Mr.  Bublitsyn  sucked 
at  his  pipe. 

Pyetushkov  started. 

*  But  why  do  I  ask  you  ? '  pursued  Bublitsyn, 
disappearing  in  a  cloud  of  smoke, — *  you  're  not 
the  man  to  notice,  don't  you  know,  Ivan  Afan- 
asiitch !  Goodness  knows  what  you  do  to 
occupy  yourself,  Ivan  Afanasiitch ! ' 

*  The  same  as  you  do,'  Pyetushkov  replied 
with  some  vexation,  in  a  drawling  voice. 

*  Oh  no,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  not  a  bit  of  it,  .  .  . 
How  can  you  say  so  ? ' 

'Well,  why  not?' 
'  Nonsense,  nonsense.' 

*  Why  so,  why  so  ? ' 

Bublitsyn  stuck  his  pipe  in  the  corner  of  his 
mouth,  and  began  scrutinising  his  not  very 
handsome  boots.  Pyetushkov  felt  embar- 
rassed. 

'  Ah,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  Ivan  Afanasiitch !  * 
pursued  Bublitsyn,  as  though  sparing  his  feel- 
ings. *  But  as  to  Vassilissa,  the  baker  girl,  I 
can  assure  you :  a  very,  ve-ry  fine  girl,  ,  ,  . 
ve-ry.' 

2S4 


I>YETUSHKOV 

Mr.  Bublitsyn  dilated  his  nostrils,  and  slowly 
plunged  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

Strange  to  relate,  Ivan  Afanasiitch  felt  some- 
thing of  the  nature  of  jealousy.  He  began 
moving  restlessly  in  his  chair,  burst  into  ex- 
plosive laughter  at  nothing  at  all,  suddenly 
blushed,  yawned,  and,  as  he  yawned,  his  lower 
jaw  twitched  a  little.  Bublitsyn  smoked  three 
more  pipes,  and  withdrew.  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
went  to  the  window,  sighed,  and  called  for 
something  to  drink. 

Onisim  set  a  glass  of  kvas  on  the  table, 
glanced  severely  at  his  master,  leaned  back 
against  the  door,  and  hung  his  head  dejectedly. 

'What  are  you  so  thoughtful  about?'  his 
master  asked  him  genially,  but  with  some  in- 
ward trepidation. 

*  What  am  I  thinking  about  ? '  retorted 
Onisim  ;  *  what  am  I  thinking  about  ?  .  .  .  it 's 
always  about  you.* 

*  About  me ! ' 

*  Of  course  it 's  about  you.* 

*  Why,  what  is  it  you  are  thinking  ?  ' 

*  Why,  this  is  what  I  'm  thinking.'  (Here 
Onisim  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.)  *  You  ought  to 
be  ashamed,  sir — you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself 

*  Ashamed  ? ' 

*Yes,  ashamed.  .  .  .  Look  at  Mr.  Bublitsyn 
Ivan  Afanasiitch.  .  .  .  Tell  me  if  he's  not  a 
fine  fellow,  now.' 

255 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  I  don't  understand  you/ 

*  You  don't  understand  me.  ...  Oh  yes,  you 
do  understand  me.' 

Onisim  paused. 

*  Mr.  Bublitsyn  's  a  real  gentleman — what  a 
gentleman  ought  to  be.  But  what  are  you, 
Ivan  Afanasiitch,  what  are  you  ?    Tell  me  that' 

*  Why,  I  'm  a  gentleman  too.' 

*  A  gentleman,  indeed  ! '  .  .  .  retorted  Onisim, 
growing  indignant.  *  A  pretty  gentleman  you 
are!  You're  no  better,  sir,  than  a  hen  in  a 
shower  of  rain,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  let  me  tell  you. 
Here  you  sit  sticking  at  home  the  whole  blessed 
day  .  .  .  much  good  it  does  you,  sitting  at 
home  like  that!  You  don't  play  cards,  you 
don't  go  and  see  the  gentry,  and  as  for  .  .  . 
well  .  .  .' 

Onisim  waved  his  hand  expressively. 

*  Now,  come  . .  .  you  really  go  .  .  .  too  far  .  . .' 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  said  hesitatingly,  clutching 
his  pipe. 

'Too  far,  indeed,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  too  far, 
you  say !  Judge  for  yourself.  Here  again, 
with  Vassilissa  .  .  .  why  couldn't  you  .  .  .' 

*  But  what  are  you  thinking  about,  Onisim,' 
Pyetushkov  interrupted  miserably. 

*  I  know  what  I  'm  thinking  about  But  there 
— I  'd  better  let  you  alone !  What  can  you 
do  ?     Only  fancy  .  .  .  there  you  .  .  ,' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  got  up. 

*  There,  there,  if  you  please,  you  hold  your 

256 


PYETUSHKOV 

tongue,'  he  said  quickly,  seeming  to  be  search- 
ing for  Onisim  with  his  eyes  ;  '  I  shall  really, 
you  know  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  what  do  you  mean  by 
it,  really?     You'd  better  help  me  dress.' 

Onisim  slowly  drew  off  Ivan  Afanasiitch's 
greasy  Tartar  dressing-gown, gazed  with  fatherly 
commiseration  at  his  master,  shook  his  head, 
put  him  on  his  coat,  and  fell  to  beating  hi  in 
about  the  back  with  a  brush. 

Pyetushkov  went  out,  and  after  a  not  very 
protracted  stroll  about  the  crooked  streets  of 
the  town,  found  himself  facing  the  baker's  shop. 
A  queer  smile  was  playing  about  his  lips. 

He  had  hardly  time  to  look  twice  at  the  too 
well-known  *  establishment,'  when  suddenly  the 
little  gate  opened,  and  Vassilissa  ran  out  with 
a  yellow  kerchief  on  her  head  and  a  jacket 
flung  after  the  Russian  fashion  on  her  shoulders. 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  at  once  overtook  her. 

*  Where  are  you  going,  my  dear  ? ' 
Vassilissa  glanced  swiftly  at  him,  laughed, 

turned  away,  and  put  her  hand  over  her  lips. 

'Going  shopping,  I  suppose?'  queried  Ivan 
Afanasiitch,  fidgeting  with  his  feet. 

*  How  inquisitive  we  are  !'  retorted  Vassilissa. 
'Why inquisitive?'  said  Pyetushkov, hurriedly 

gesticulating  with  his  hands.  *  Quite  the  con- 
trary. ,  .  .  Oh  yes,  you  know,'  he  added  hastily, 
as  though  these  last  words  completely  con- 
veyed his  meaning. 

'  Did  you  eat  my  roll  ? ' 
R  257 


PYETUSHKOV 

*To  be  sure  I  did/  replied  Pyetushkov: 
'  with  special  enjoyment' 

Vassilissa  continued  to  walk  on  and  to  laugh. 

*  It 's  pleasant  weather  to-day/  pursued  Ivan 
Afanasiitch  :  *  do  you  often  go  out  walking  ? ' 

*Yes.' 

*  Ah,  how  I  should  like  .  .  .* 

*  What  say?' 

The  girls  in  our  district  utter  those  words  in 
a  very  queer  way,  with  a  peculiar  sharpness 
and  rapidity.  .  .  .  Partridges  call  at  sunset  with 
just  that  sound. 

*To  go  out  walking,  don't  you  know,  with 
you  .  ,  .  into  the  country,  or  .  ,  / 

*  How  can  you  ?  ' 

*  Why  not  ?  ' 

*  Ah,  upon  my  word,  how  you  do  go  on  !  * 

*  But  allow  me  .  .  .' 

At  this  point  they  were  overtaken  by  a 
dapper  little  shopman,  with  a  little  goat's  beard, 
and  with  his  fingers  held  apart  like  antlers,  so 
as  to  keep  his  sleeves  from  slipping  over  his 
hands,  in  a  long-skirted  bluish  coat,  and  a 
warm  cap  that  resembled  a  bloated  water-melon. 
Pyetushkov,  for  propriety's  sake,  fell  back  a 
little  behind  Vassilissa,  but  quickly  came  up 
with  her  again. 

*  Well,  then,  what  about  our  walk  ?  ' 
Vassilissa  looked  slily  at  him  and  giggled 

again. 

*  Do  you  belong  to  these  parts  ? ' 

2S8 


PYETUSHKOV 

•Yes/ 

Vassilissa  passed  her  hand  over  her  hair  and 
walked  a  little  more  slowly.  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
smiled,  and,  his  heart  inwardly  sinking  with 
timidity,  he  stooped  a  little  on  one  side  and 
put  a  trembling  arm  about  the  beauty's  waist. 

Vassilissa  uttered  a  shriek. 

*  Give  over,  do,  for  shame,  in  the  street/ 
'Come    now,   there,    there,*   muttered    Ivan 

Afanasiitch. 

'Give  over,  I  tell  you,  in  the  street.  ,  .  . 
Don't  be  rude.' 

*  A  ...  a  ...  ah,  what  a  girl  you  are ! '  said 
Pyetushkov  reproachfully,  while  he  blushed  up 
to  his  ears. 

Vassilissa  stood  still. 

*  Now  go  along  with  you,  sir — go  along,  do.' 
Pyetushkov  obeyed.     He  got  home,  and  sat 

for  a  whole  hour  without  moving  from  his  chair, 
without  even  smoking  his  pipe.  At  last  he 
took  out  a  sheet  of  greyish  paper,  mended  a 
pen,  and  after  long  deliberation  wrote  the 
following  letter. 

*  Dear  Madam,  Vassilissa  Timofyevna! — 
Being  naturally  a  most  inoffensive  person, 
how  could  I  have  occasioned  you  annoyance  ? 
If  I  have  really  been  to  blame  in  my  conduct 
to  you,  then  I  must  tell  you  :  the  hints  of  Mr. 
Bublitsyn  were  responsible  for  this,  which  was 
what    I    never   expected.      Anyway,   I    must 

259 


PYETUSHKOV 

humbly  beg  you  not  to  be  angry  with  me.  I 
am  a  sensitive  man,  and  any  kindness  I  am 
most  sensible  of  and  grateful  for.  Do  not  be 
angry  with  me,  Vassilissa  Timofyevna,  I  beg 
you  most  humbly. — I  remain  respectfully  your 
obedient  servant,  IVAN  PYETUSHKOV.' 

Onisim  carried  this  letter  to  its  address. 


III 

A  FORTNIGHT  passed.  Onisim  went  every 
morning  as  usual  to  the  baker's  shop.  One 
day  Vassilissa  ran  out  to  meet  him. 

*  Good  morning,  Onisim  Sergeitch.* 
Onisim   put  on   a   gloomy  expression,   and 

responded  crossly,  '  'Morning.' 

*  How  is  it  you  never  come  to  see  us,  Onisim 
Sergeitch  ? ' 

Onisim  glanced  morosely  at  her. 

*  What  should  I  come  for  ?  you  wouldn't  give 
me  a  cup  of  tea,  no  fear.' 

*Yes,   I   would,  Onisim  Sergeitch,  I  would. 
You  come  and  see.     Rum  in  it,  too.' 
Onisim  slowly  relaxed  into  a  smile. 
^  Well,  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,  then.' 
'  When,  then — when  ? ' 
^When  .  .  .  well,  you  are  .  .  .' 

*  To-day — this  evening,  if  you  like.     Drop  in.' 
'All   right,  I'll  come   along/  replied   Onisim, 

260 


PYETUSHKOV 

and  he  sauntered  home  with  his  slow,  rolh'ng 
step. 

The  same  evening  in  a  little  room,  beside  a 
bed  covered  with  a  striped  eider-down,  Onisim 
was  sitting  at  a  clumsy  little  table,  facing 
Vassilissa.  A  huge,  dingy  yellow  samovar  was 
hissing  and  bubbling  on  the  table ;  a  pot  of 
geranium  stood  in  the  window ;  in  the  other 
corner  near  the  door  there  stood  aslant  an  ugly 
chest  with  a  tiny  hanging  lock ;  on  the  chest  lay  a 
shapeless  heap  of  all  sorts  of  old  rags ;  on  the 
walls  were  black,  greasy  prints.  Onisim  and 
Vassilissa  drank  their  tea  in  silence,  looking 
straight  at  each  other,  turning  the  lumps  of 
sugar  over  and  over  in  their  hands,  as  it  were 
reluctantly  nibbling  them,  blinking,  screwing  up 
their  eyes,  and  with  a  hissing  sound  sucking  in 
the  yellowish  boiling  liquid  through  their  teeth. 
At  last  they  had  emptied  the  whole  samovar, 
turned  upside  down  the  round  cups — one 
with  the  inscription, '  Take  your  fill ' ;  the  other 
with  the  words,  *  Cupid's  dart  hath  pierced  my 
heart' — then  they  cleared  their  throats,  wiped 
their  perspiring  brows,  and  gradually  dropped 
into  conversation. 

*  Onisim  Sergeitch,  how  about  your  master . . .' 
began  Vassilissa,  and  did  not  finish  her  sentence. 

'What  about  my  master?'  replied  Onisim, 
and  he  leaned  on  his  hand.  *  He 's  all  right 
But  why  do  you  ask  ? ' 

*  Oh,  I  only  asked,'  answered  Vassilissa. 

261 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  But  I  say ' — (here  Onisim  grinned) — *  I  say, 
he  wrote  you  a  letter,  didn't  he  ? ' 

'Yes,  he  did.' 

Onisim  shook  his  head  with  an  extraordi- 
narily self-satisfied  air. 

*  So  he  did,  did  he  ? '  he  said  huskily,  with  a 
smile.  '  Well,  and  what  did  he  say  in  his  letter 
to  you  ?  * 

*  Oh,  all  sorts  of  things.  "  I  didn't  mean  any- 
thing. Madam,  Vassilissa  Timofyevna,"  says  he, 
"don't  you  think  anything  of  it;  don't  you  be 
offended,  madam,"  and  a  lot  more  like  that  he 
wrote.  .  .  .  But  I  say,'  she  added  after  a  brief 
silence  :  '  what 's  he  like  ?  ' 

'  He 's  all  right,'  Onisim  responded  indiffer- 
ently. 

*  Does  he  get  angry  ?  ' 

*  He  get  angry !  Not  he.  Why,  do  you  like 
him?' 

Vassilissa  looked  down  and  giggled  in  her 
sleeve. 

*  Come,'  grumbled  Onisim. 

*  Oh,  what 's  that  to  you,  Onisim  Sergeitch  ? 

*  Oh,  come,  I  tell  you.' 

*  Well,'  Vassilissa  brought  out  at  last,  *  he 's  . . . 
a  gentleman.  Of  course  .  .  .  I  .  .  .  and  be- 
sides ;  he  .  .  .  you  know  yourself  .  .  .' 

*Of  course  I  do,'  Onisim  observed  solemnly. 

*  Of  course  you  're  aware,  to  be  sure,  Onisim 
Sergeitch.'  .  ,  .  Vassilissa  was  obviously  be- 
coming agitated. 

262 


PYETUSHKOV 

*You  tell  him,  your  master,  that  I'm  .  .  .; 
say,  not  angry  with  him,  but  that  .  .  / 
She  stammered. 

*  We  understand,'  responded  Onisim,  and  he 
got  up  from  his  seat.  *  We  understand.  Thanks 
for  the  entertainment.' 

*  Come  in  again  some  day.' 

*  All  right,  all  right' 

Onisim  approached  the  door.  The  fat 
woman  came  into  the  room. 

'Good  evening  to  you,  Onisim  Sergeitch/ 
she  said  in  a  peculiar  chant. 

*  Good  evening  to  you,  Praskovia  Ivanovna,' 
he  said  in  the  same  sing-song. 

Both  stood  still  for  a  little  while  facing  each 
other. 

*  Well,  good  day  to  you,  Praskovia  Ivanovna,' 
Onisim  chanted  out  again. 

*  Well,  good  day  to  you,  Onisim  Sergeitch,* 
she  responded  in  the  same  sing-song. 

Onisim  arrived  home.  His  master  was  lying 
on  his  bed,  gazing  at  the  ceiling. 

*  Where  have  you  been  ? ' 

*  Where  have  I  been  ? '  .  .  .  (Onisim  had  the 
habit  of  repeating  reproachfully  the  last  words 
of  every  question.)  *  I  've  been  about  your 
business.' 

*  What  business  ? ' 

*  Why,  don't  you  know  ?  .  .  .  I  've  been  to 
see  Vassilissa.' 

Pyetushkov  blinked  and  turned  over  on  his  bed. 
263 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  So  that 's  how  it  is,'  observed  Onisim,  and 
he  coolly  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  *So  that's 
how  it  is.  You  're  always  like  that.  Vassilissa 
sends  you  her  duty.' 

'Really?' 

*  Really  ?  So  that 's  all  about  it.  Really ! . . . 
She  told  me  to  say,  Why  is  it,  says  she,  one 
never  sees  him }  Why  is  it,  says  she,  he  never 
comes  ? ' 

'  Well,  and  what  did  you  say  ? ' 

*What  did  I  say?  I  told  her:  You're  a 
silly  girl — I  told  her — as  if  folks  like  that  are 
coming  to  see  you  !  No,  you  come  yourself,  I 
told  her.' 

*  Well,  and  what  did  she  say?' 

*  What  did  she  say  ?  .  .  .  She  said  nothing.' 

*  That  is,  how  do  you  mean,  nothing  ? ' 

*  Why,  nothing,  to  be  sure.' 
Pyetushkov  said  nothing  for  a  little  while. 
'Well,  and  is  she  coming?' 

Onisim  shook  his  head. 

*  She  coming !  You  're  in  too  great  a  hurry, 
sir.  She  coming,  indeed!  No,  you  go  too 
fast'  .  .  . 

*  But  you  said  yourself  that  .  .  / 

*  Oh,  well,  it 's  easy  to  talk.' 
Pyetushkov  was  silent  again. 

*  Well,  but  how 's  it  to  be,  then,  my  lad  ? ' 

*  How  ?  .  .  .  You  ought  to  know  best ;  you  're 
a  gentleman.' 

*  Oh,  nonsense !  come  now ! ' 

264 


PYETUSHKOV 

Onisim  swayed  complacently  backwards  and 
forwards. 

*Do  you  know  Praskovia  Ivanovna?'  he 
asked  at  last. 

*  No.     What  Praskovia  Ivanovna  ? ' 

*  Why,  the  baker  woman  ! ' 

*  Oh  yes,  the  baker  woman.  I  've  seen  her ; 
she 's  very  fat.' 

'She's  a  worthy  woman.     She's  own  aunt 
to  the  other,  to  your  girl' 
'Aunt?' 

*  Why,  didn't  you  know  ?  * 

*  No,  I  didn't  know.* 
•Well  .  .  .' 

Onisim  was  restrained  by  respect  for  his 
master  from  giving  full  expression  to  his 
feelings. 

*  That 's  whom  it  is  you  should  make  friends 
with.' 

'Well,  I  've  no  objection.' 

Onisim  looked  approvingly  at  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch. 

'But  with  what  object  precisely  am  I  to 
make  friends  with  her?'  inquired  Pyetushkov. 

'  What  for,  indeed ! '  answered  Onisim 
serenely. 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  got  up,  paced  up  and  down 
the  room,  stood  still  before  the  window,  and 
without  turning  his  head,  with  some  hesitation 
he  articulated : 

'Onisim!' 

265 


PYETUSHKOV 

'What  say?' 

*  Won't  it  be,  you  know,  a  little  awkward  for 
me  with  the  old  woman,  eh  ? ' 

*  Oh,  that  *s  as  you  like.' 

*  Oh,  well,  I  only  thought  it  might,  perhaps. 
My  comrades  might  notice  it ;  it 's  a  little  .  .  . 
But  I  '11  think  it  over.  Give  me  my  pipe.  .  .  . 
So  she,'  he  went  on  after  a  short  silence — 
*  Vassilissa,  I  mean,  says  then  .  .  .* 

But  Onisim  had  no  desire  to  continue  the 
conversation,  and  he  assumed  his  habitual 
morose  expression. 


IV 


Ivan  Afanasiitch's  acquaintance  with  Pras- 
kovia  Ivanovna  began  in  the  following  manner. 
Five  days  after  his  conversation  with  Onisim, 
Pyetushkov  set  off  in  the  evening  to  the  baker's 
shop.  *  Well,'  thought  he,  as  he  unlatched  the 
creaking  gate,  *  I  don't  know  how  it 's  to 
be.'  .  .  . 

He  mounted  the  steps,  opened  the  door.  A 
huge,  crested  hen  rushed,  with  a  deafening 
cackle,  straight  under  his  feet,  and  long  after 
was  still  running  about  the  yard  in  wild  ex- 
citement. From  a  room  close  by  peeped  the 
astonished  countenance  of  the  fat  woman. 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  smiled  and  nodded.  The 
fat  woman  bowed  to  him.  Tightly  grasping 
266 


PYETUSHKOV 

his  hat,  Pyetushkov  approached  her.  Pras- 
kovia  Ivanovna  was  apparently  anticipating 
an  honoured  guest ;  her  dress  was  fastened 
up  at  every  hook.  Pyetushkov  sat  down  on 
a  chair;  Praskovia  Ivanovna  seated  herself 
opposite  him. 

'  I  have  come  to  you,  Praskovia  Ivanovna, 
more  on  account  of  .  .  .'  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
began  at  last — and  then  ceased.  His  lips  were 
twitching  spasmodically. 

'You  are  kindly  welcome,  sir,'  responded 
Praskovia  Ivanovna  in  the  proper  sing-song, 
and  with  a  bow.  'Always  delighted  to  see 
a  guest.' 

Pyetushkov  took  courage  a  little. 

*  I  have  long  wished,  you  know,  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  making  your  acquaintance,  Pras- 
kovia Ivanovna.' 

*  Much  obliged  to  you,  Ivan  Afanasiitch.' 
Followed    a    silence.      Praskovia    Ivanovna 

wiped  her  face  with  a  parti-coloured  handker- 
chief; Ivan  Afanasiitch  continued  with  intense 
attention  to  gaze  away  to  one  side.  Both  were 
rather  uncomfortable.  But  in  merchant  and 
petty  shopkeeper  society,  where  even  old 
friends  never  step  outside  special  angular 
forms  of  etiquette,  a  certain  constraint  in  the 
behaviour  of  guests  and  host  to  one  another 
not  only  strikes  no  one  as  strange,  but,  on 
the  contrary,  is  regarded  as  perfectly  correct 
and  indispensable,  particularly  on  a  first  visit. 
267 


PYETUSHKOV 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  was  agreeably  impressed 
by  Pyetushkov.  He  was  formal  and  decorous 
in  his  manners,  and  moreover,  wasn't  he  a  man 
of  some  rank,  too  ? 

*  Praskovia  Ivanovna,  ma'am,  I  like  your  rolls 
very  much,'  he  said  to  her. 

*  Really  now,  really  now.* 

*  Very  good  they  are,  you  know,  very,  indeed.* 
'May  they  do  you  good,  sir,  may  they  do 

you  good.     Delighted,  to  be  sure.' 

*  I  've  never  eaten  any  like  them  in  Moscow.' 

*  You  don't  say  so  now,  you  don't  say  so.* 
Again  a  silence  followed. 

'Tell  me,  Praskovia  Ivanovna,'  began  Ivan 
Afanasiitch ;  *  that 's  your  niece,  I  fancy,  isn't 
it,  living  with  you  ? ' 

*  My  own  niece,  sir.' 

*  How  comes  it  .  .  .  she 's  with  you  ? '  .  .  . 
'  She 's  an  orphan,  so  I  keep  her.' 

*  And  is  she  a  good  worker  ? ' 

*  Such  a  girl  to  work  .  .  .  such  a  girl,  sir  .  ,  , 
ay  ...  ay  ...  to  be  sure  she  is.* 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  thought  it  discreet  not  to 
pursue  the  subject  of  the  niece  further. 

'What  bird  is  that  you  have  in  the  cage, 
Praskovia  Ivanovna?' 

'  God  knows.     A  bird  of  some  sort.' 

*  H'm  !  Well,  so,  good  day  to  you,  Praskovia 
Ivanovna.' 

'  A  very  good   day  to  your  honour.     Pray 
walk  in  another  time,  and  take  a  cup  of  tea ' 
268 


PYETUSHKOV 

'With  the  greatest  pleasure,  Praskovia  Ivan- 
ovna.' 

Pyttushkov  walked  out.  On  the  steps  he 
met  Vassilissa.     She  giggled. 

'Where  are  you  going,  my  darling?'  said 
Pyetushkov  with  reckless  daring. 

'Come,  give  over,  do,  you  are  a  one  for 
joking.' 

'  He,  he  !     And  did  you  get  my  letter  ? ' 

Vassilissa  hid  the  lower  part  of  her  face  in 
her  sleeve  and  made  no  answer. 

*  And  you  're  not  angry  with  me  ? ' 

'Vassilissa!'  came  the  jarring  voice  of  the 
aunt ;  '  hey,  Vassilissa  ! ' 

Vassilissa  ran  into  the  house.  Pyetushkov 
returned  home.  But  from  that  day  he  began 
going  often  to  the  baker's  shop,  and  his  visits 
were  not  for  nothing.  Ivan  Afanasiitch's  hopes, 
to  use  the  lofty  phraseology  suitable,  were 
crowned  with  success.  Usually,  the  attain- 
ment of  the  goal  has  a  cooling  effect  on 
people,  but  Pyetushkov,  on  the  contrary,  grew 
every  day  more  and  more  ardent.  Love  is 
a  thing  of  accident,  it  exists  in  itself,  like 
art,  and,  like  nature,  needs  no  reasons  to  justify 
it,  as  some  clever  man  has  said  who  never  loved, 
himself,  but  made  excellent  observations  upon 
love. 

Pyetushkov  became  passionately  attached 
to  Vassilissa.  He  was  completely  happy.  His 
soul  was  aglow  with  bliss.  Little  by  little  he 
269 


PYETUSHKOV 

carried  all  his  belongings,  at  any  rate  all  his 
pipes,  to  Praskovia  Ivanovna's,  and  for  whole 
days  together  he  sat  in  her  back  room.  Pras- 
kovia Ivanovna  charged  him  something  for  his 
dinner  and  drank  his  tea,  consequently  she  did 
not  complain  of  his  presence.  Vassilissa  had 
grown  used  to  him.  She  would  work,  sing,  or 
spin  before  him,  sometimes  exchanging  a  couple 
of  words  with  him  ;  Pyetushkov  watched  her, 
smoked  his  pipe,  swayed  to  and  fro  in  his 
chair,  laughed,  and  in  leisure  hours  played 
*  Fools'  with  her  and  Praskovia  Ivanovna. 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  was  happy.  .  .  . 

But  in  this  world  nothing  is  perfect,  and, 
small  as  a  man's  requirements  may  be,  destiny 
never  quite  fulfils  them,  and  positively  spoils 
the  whole  thing,  if  possible.  .  .  .  The  spoonful 
of  pitch  is  sure  to  find  its  way  into  the  barrel 
of  honey !  Ivan  Afanasiitch  experienced  this 
in  his  case. 

In  the  first  place,  from  the  time  of  his 
establishing  himself  at  Vassilissa's,  Pyetushkov 
dropped  more  than  ever  out  of  all  intercourse 
with  his  comrades.  He  saw  them  only  when 
absolutely  necessary,  and  then,  to  avoid  allu- 
sions and  jeers  (in  which,  however,  he  was  not 
always  successful),  he  put  on  the  desperately 
sullen  and  intensely  scared  look  of  a  hare  in  a 
display  of  fireworks. 

Secondly,  Onisim  gave  him  no  peace ;  he 
had  lost  every  trace  of  respect  for  him, 
270 


PYETUSHKOV 

he    mercilessly   persecuted    him,   put   him   to 
shame. 

And  .  .  .  thirdly.  .  .  .  Alas!    read   further 
kindly  reader. 


One  day  Pyetushkov  (who  for  the  reasons  given 
above  found  little  comfort  outside  Praskovia 
Ivanovna's  doors)  was  sitting  in  Vassilissa's 
room  at  the  back,  and  was  busying  himself 
over  some  home-brewed  concoction,  something 
in  the  way  of  jam  or  syrup.  The  mistress  of 
the  house  was  not  at  home.  Vassilissa  was 
sitting  in  the  shop  singing. 

There  came  a  knock  at  the  little  pane. 
Vassilissa  got  up,  went  to  the  window,  uttered 
a  little  shriek,  giggled,  and  began  whispering 
with  some  one.  On  going  back  to  her  place, 
she  sighed,  and  then  fell  to  singing  louder  than 
ever. 

*  Who  was  that  you  were  talking  to  ? '  Pye- 
tushkov asked  her. 

Vassilissa  went  on  singing  carelessly. 

*  Vassilissa,  do  you  hear  ?     Vassilissa ! ' 

*  What  do  you  want  ? ' 

*  Whom  were  you  talking  to  ? ' 

*  What 's  that  to  you  ? ' 

*  I  only  asked.' 

Pyetushkov  came  out  of  the  back  room  in  a 
271 


PYETUSHKOV 

parti-coloured  smoking-jacket  with  tucked-up 
sleeves,  and  a  strainer  in  his  hand. 

*  Oh,  a  friend  of  mine,'  answered  Vassilissa. 

*  What  friend  ?  ' 

*  Oh,  Piotr  Petrovitch.' 

*Piotr  Petrovitch?  .  .  .  what  Piotr  Petro- 
vitch ?  * 

*  He 's  one  of  your  lot.  He 's  got  such  a 
difficult  name.' 

'Bublitsyn?' 

*  Yes,  yes     .  .  Piotr  Petrovitch/ 

*  And  do  you  know  him  ? ' 

*  Rather !  *  responded  Vassilissa,  with  a  wag 
of  her  head. 

Pyetushkov,  without  a  word,  paced  ten  times 
up  and  down  the  room. 

*  I  say,  Vassilissa,'  he  said  at  last,  *  that  is, 
how  do  you  know  him  ?  ' 

'  How  do  I  know  him  ?  .  .  .  I  know  him  .  .  , 
He  's  such  a  nice  gentleman.' 

'  How  do  you  mean  nice,  though?  how  nice? 
how  nice  ? ' 

Vassilissa  gazed  at  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 

*  Nice,'  she  said  slowly  and  in  perplexity. 
*  You  know  what  I  mean.' 

Pyetushkov  bit  his  lips  and  began  again 
pacing  the  room. 

*  What  were  you  talking  about  with  him, 
eh?' 

Vassilissa  smiled  and  looked  down. 

*  Speak,  speak,  speak,  I  tell  you,  speak !  * 

272 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  How  cross  you  are  to-day !  *  observed 
Vassilissa. 

Pyetushkov  was  silent. 

'  Come  now,  Vassilissa,'  he  began  at  last ; 
*  no,  I  won't  be  cross. .  . .  Come,  tell  me,  what 
were  you  talking  about  ? ' 

Vassilissa  laughed. 

'  He  is  a  one  to  joke,  really,  that  Piotr 
Petrovitch ! ' 

*  Well,  what  did  he  say  ?  ' 

*  He  is  a  fellow ! ' 

Pyetushkov  was  silent  again  for  a  little. 

*  Vassilissa,  you  love  me,  don't  you?'  he 
asked  her. 

*  Oh,  so  that 's  what  you  're  after,  too ! ' 
Poor  Pyetushkov  felt  a  pang  at  his  heart. 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  came  in.  They  sat  down 
to  dinner.  After  dinner  Praskovia  Ivanovna 
betook  herself  to  the  shelf  bed.  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch  himself  lay  down  on  the  stove,  turned 
over  and  dropped  asleep.  A  cautious  creak 
waked  him.  Ivan  Afanasiitch  sat  up,  leaned 
on  his  elbow,  looked :  the  door  was  open.  He 
jumped  up — no  Vassilissa.  He  ran  into  the 
yard — she  was  not  in  the  yard  ;  into  the  street, 
looked  up  and  down — Vassilissa  was  nowhere 
to  be  seen.  He  ran  without  his  cap  as  far  as 
the  market — no,  Vassilissa  was  not  in  sight. 
Slowly  he  returned  to  the  baker's  shop,  clam- 
bered on  to  the  stove,  and  turned  with  his 
face  to  the  wall.    He  felt  miserable.    Bublitsyn 

S  7']l 


PYETUSHKOV 

.  .  Bublitsyn  ,  .  .  the  name  was  positively 
ringing  in  his  ears. 

'  What 's  the  matter,  my  good  sir  ? '  Praskovia 
Ivanovna  asked  him  in  a  drowsy  voice.  *  Why 
are  you  groaning  ? ' 

'  Oh,  nothing,  ma'am.  Nothing.  I  feel  a 
weight  oppressing  me.' 

'It's  the  mushrooms,'  murmured  Praskovia 
Ivanovna — *  it 's  all  those  mushrooms.' 

O  Lord,  have  mercy  on  us  sinners ! 

An  hour  passed,  a  second — still  no  Vassilissa. 
Twenty  times  Pyetushkov  was  on  the  point  of 
getting  up,  and  twenty  times  he  huddled 
miserably  under  the  sheepskin.  ...  At  last  he 
really  did  get  down  from  the  stove  and  deter- 
mined to  go  home,  and  positively  went  out 
into  the  yard,  but  came  back.  Praskovia 
Ivanovna  got  up.  The  hired  man,  Luka,  black 
as  a  beetle,  though  he  was  a  baker,  put  the 
bread  into  the  oven.  Pyetushkov  went  again 
out  on  to  the  steps  and  pondered.  The  goat 
that  lived  in  the  yard  went  up  to  him,  and 
gave  him  a  little  friendly  poke  with  his  horns. 
Pyetushkov  looked  at  him,  and  for  some  un- 
known reason  said  '  Kss,  Kss.'  Suddenly  the 
low  wicket-gate  slowly  opened  and  Vassilissa 
appeared.  Ivan  Afanasiitch  went  straight  to 
meet  her,  took  her  by  the  hand,  and  rather 
coolly,  but  resolutely,  said  to  her : 

*  Come  along  with  me.' 

*But,  excuse  me,  Ivan  Afanasiitch  ...  I  .  . ,' 
274 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  Come  with  me/  he  repeated. 
She  obeyed. 

Pyetushkov  led  her  to  his  lodgings.  Onisim, 
as  usual,  was  lying  at  full  length  asleep.  Ivan 
Afanasiitch  waked  him,  told  him  to  light  a 
candle.  Vassilissa  went  to  the  window  and 
sat  down  in  silence.  While  Onisim  was  busy 
getting  a  light  in  the  anteroom,  Pyetushkov 
stood  motionless  at  the  other  window,  staring 
into  the  street.  Onisim  came  in,  with  the  candle 
in  his  hands,  was  beginning  to  grumble  .  .  . 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  turned  quickly  round :  *  Go 
along,'  he  said  to  him. 

Onisim  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

'Go  away  at  once,'  Pyetushkov  repeated 
threateningly. 

Onisim  looked  at  his  master  and  went  out. 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  shouted  after  him  : 

*  Away,  quite  away.  Out  of  the  house.  You 
can  come  back  in  two  hours'  time.' 

Onisim  slouched  off. 

Pyetushkov  waited  till  he  heard  the  gate 
bang,  and  at  once  went  up  to  Vassilissa. 

*  Where  have  you  been  ?  ' 
Vassilissa  was  confused. 

*  Where  have  you  been  ?  I  tell  you,'  he 
repeated. 

Vassilissa  looked  round  .  .  . 

*  I  am  speaking  to  you  .  .  .  where  have  you 
been  ? '     And  Pyetushkov  raised  his  arm  .  ,  , 

27$ 


PYETUSHKOV 

'  Don't  beat  me,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  don't  beat 
me/  Vassilissa  whispered  in  terror. 

Pyetushkov  turned  away. 

'  Beat  you.  .  .  .  No !  I  'm  not  going  to  beat 
you.  Beat  you?  I  beg  your  pardon,  my 
darling.  God  bless  you  !  While  I  supposed 
you  loved  me,  while  I  ,  .  .  I  .  .  .' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  broke  off.  He  gasped  for 
breath. 

'Listen,  Vassilissa,*  he  said  at  last.  'You 
know  I'm  a  kind-hearted  man,  you  know  it, 
don't  you,  Vassilissa,  don't  you  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  do,'  she  said  faltering. 

*  I  do  nobody  any  harm,  nobody,  nobody  in 
the  world.  And  I  deceive  nobody.  Why  are 
you  deceiving  me  ? ' 

*  But  I  'm  not  deceiving  you,  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch.' 

*  You  aren't  deceiving  me  ?  Oh,  very  well  I 
Oh,  very  well !  Then  tell  me  where  you  've 
been.* 

*  I  went  to  see  Matrona.* 

*  That 's  a  lie ! ' 

*  Really,  I  've  been  at  Matrona's.  You  ask 
her,  if  you  don't  believe  me.' 

*  And  Bub what 's  his  name  .  .  .  have 

you  seen  that  devil  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  did  see  him.* 

'You  did  see  him  !  you  did  see  him  !     Oh 
you  did  see  him  ! ' 

Pyetushkov  turned  pale. 
276 


I>YETUSHKOV 

*  So  you  were  making  an  appointment  with 
him  in  the  morning  at  the  window — eh  ?  eh  ? ' 

*  He  asked  me  to  come.' 

*  And  so  you  went.  .  .  .  Thanks  very  much, 
my  girl,  thanks  very  much  ! '  Pyetushkov 
made  Vassilissa  a  low  bow. 

*  But,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  you  're  maybe  fancy- 
ing .  . ; 

*  You  'd  better  not  talk  to  me  !  And  a  pretty 
fool  I  am  !  There  's  nothing  to  make  an  out- 
cry for  !  You  may  make  friends  with  any  one 
you  like.  I  've  nothing  to  do  with  you.  So 
there  !     I  don't  want  to  know  you  even.' 

Vassilissa  got  up. 

*  That 's  for  you  to  say,  Ivan  Afanasiitch.' 

*  Where  are  you  going  ?' 

*  Why,  you  yourself  .  .  .' 

*  I  'm  not  sending  you  away,'  Pyetushkov 
interrupted  her. 

'Oh  no,  Ivan  Afanasiitch.  .  .  .  What's  the 
use  of  my  stopping  here  ? ' 

Pyetushkov  let  her  get  as  far  as  the  door. 
*So  you  're  going,  Vassilissa?' 

*  You  keep  on  abusing  me.' 

*  1  abuse  you  !  You  've  no  fear  of  God, 
Vassilissa  !  When  have  I  abused  you  ?  Come, 
come,  say  when  ?  ' 

*  Why !  Just  this  minute  weren't  you  all 
but  beating  me  ? ' 

*  Vassilissa,  it 's  wicked  of  you.  Really,  it  *s 
downright  wicked.' 

^7? 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  And  then  you  threw  it  in  my  face,  that  you 
don't  want  to  know  me.  "  I  'm  a  gentleman," 
say  you.' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  began  wringing  his  hands 
speechlessly.  Vassilissa  got  back  as  far  as  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

*  Well,  God  be  with  you,  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 
I  '11  keep  myself  to  myself,  and  you  keep  your- 
self to  yourself 

*  Nonsense,  Vassilissa,  nonsense,'  Pyetushkov 
cut  her  short.  'You  think  again  ;  look  at  me. 
You  see  I  'm  not  myself.  You  see  I  don't 
know  what  I  'm  saying.  .  .  .  You  might  have 
some  feeling  for  me.' 

*  You  keep  on  abusing  me,  Ivan  Afanasiitch.* 

*  Ah,  Vassilissa !  Let  bygones  be  bygones. 
Isn't  that  right?  Come,  you  're  not  angry  with 
me,  are  you  ?  ' 

*  You  keep  abusing  me,'  Vassilissa  repeated. 

*  I  won't,  my  love,  I  won't.  Forgive  an  old 
man  like  me.  I  '11  never  do  it  in  future.  Come, 
you  've  forgiven  me,  eh  ? ' 

*  God  be  with  you,  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 

*  Come,  laugh  then,  laugh.' 
Vassilissa  turned  away. 

*  You  laughed,  you  laughed,  my  love ! '  cried 
Pyetushkov,  and  he  capered  about  like  a 
child. 


278 


PYETUSHKOV 


VI 


The  next  day  Pyetushkov  went  to  the  baker's 
shop  as  usual.  Everything  went  on  as  before. 
But  there  was  a  settled  ache  at  his  heart.  He 
did  not  laugh  now  as  often,  and  sometimes  he 
fell  to  musing.  Sunday  came.  Praskovia  Ivan- 
ovna  had  an  attack  of  lumbago ;  she  did  not 
get  down  from  the  shelf  bed,  except  with  much 
difficulty  to  go  to  mass.  After  mass  Pyetush- 
kov called  Vassilissa  into  the  back  room.  She 
had  been  complaining  all  the  morning  of  feel- 
ing dull.  To  judge  by  the  expression  of  Ivan 
Afanasiitch's  countenance,  he  was  revolving  in 
his  brain  some  extraordinary  idea,  unforeseen 
even  by  him. 

*  You  sit  down  here,  Vassilissa,'  he  said  to 
her,  *  and  I  '11  sit  here.  I  want  to  have  a  little 
talk  with  you.' 

Vassilissa  sat  down. 

*  Tell  me,  Vassilissa,  can  you  write  ?  * 

*  Write?' 

*  Yes,  write  ? ' 

*  No,  I  can't.' 

*  What  about  reading  ? ' 

*  I  can't  read  either.' 

*  Then  who  read  you  my  letter  ? ' 

*  The  deacon.' 
Pyetushkov  paused. 

'But  would  you  like  to  learn  to  read  and 
write  ? ' 

279 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  Why,  what  use  would  reading  and  writing 
be  to  us,  Ivan  Afanasiitch  ?  ' 

*  What  use  ?     You  could  read  books/ 

*  But  what  good  is  there  in  books  ? ' 

*  All  sorts  of  good.  ...  I  tell  you  what,  if 
you  like,  I  '11  bring  you  a  book.' 

*  But  I  can't  read,  you  see,  Ivan  Afanasiitch/ 

*  I  '11  read  to  you.' 

*  But,  I  say,  won't  it  be  dull  ? ' 

*  Nonsense !  dull !  On  the  contrary,  it 's  the 
best  thing  to  get  rid  of  dulness.' 

*  Maybe  you  '11  read  stories,  then.* 

*  You  shall  see  to-morrow.' 

In  the  evening  Pyetushkov  returned  home, 
and  began  rummaging  in  his  boxes.  He  found 
several  odd  numbers  of  the  Library  of  Good 
Reading,  five  grey  Moscow  novels,  Nazarov's 
arithmetic,  a  child's  geography  with  a  globe  on 
the  title-page,  the  second  part  of  Keydanov's 
history,  two  dream-books,  an  almanack  for  the 
year  1819,  two  numbers  of  Galatea,  Kozlov's 
Natalia  Dolgorukaia,  and  the  first  part  of  Ros- 
lavlev.  He  pondered  a  long  while  which  to 
choose,  and  finally  made  up  his  mind  to  take 
Kozlov's  poem,  and  Roslavlev, 

Next  day  Pyetushkov  dressed  in  haste,  put 
both  the  books  under  the  lapel  of  his  coat, 
went  to  the  baker's  shop,  and  began  reading 
aloud  Zagoskin's  novel.  Vassilissa  sat  without 
moving;  at  first  she  smiled,  then  seemed  to 
become  absorbed  in  thought  .  .  .  then  she 
280 


PYETUSHKOV 

bent  a  little  forward ;  her  eyes  closed,  her 
mouth  slightly  opened,  her  hands  fell  on  her 
knees ;  she  was  dozing.  Pyetushkov  read 
quickly,  inarticulately,  in  a  thick  voice ;  he 
raised  his  eyes  .  .  . 

*  Vassilissa,  are  you  asleep  ?  * 

She  started,  rubbed  her  face,  and  stretched. 
Pyetushkov  felt  angry  with  her  and  with  him- 
self .  .  . 

*  It 's  dull,'  said  Vassilissa  lazily. 

*  I  tell  you  what,  would  you  like  me  to  read 
you  poetry?' 

'What  say?' 

*  Poetry  .  .  .  good  poetry/ 

*  No,  that 's  enough,  really.' 

Pyetushkov  hurriedly  picked  up  Kozlov's 
poem,  jumped  up,  crossed  the  room,  ran  im- 
pulsively up  to  Vassilissa,  and  began  reading. 
Vassilissa  let  her  head  drop  backwards,  spread 
out  her  hands,  stared  into  Ivan  Afanasiitch's 
face,  and  suddenly  went  off  into  a  loud  harsh 
guffaw  .  .  .  she  fairly  rolled  about  with  laugh- 
ing. 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  flung  the  book  on  the  floor 
in  his  annoyance.     Vassilissa  went  on  laughing. 

*  Why,  what  are  you  laughing  at,  silly  ? ' 
Vassilissa  roared  more  than  ever. 

*  Laugh  away,  laugh  away,*  Pyetushkov  mut- 
tered between  his  teeth. 

Vassilissa  held  her  sides,  gasping. 

*  But  what  is  it,  idiot  ?  ' 

281 


PYETUSHKOV 

But  Vassilissa  could  only  wave  her  hands. 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  snatched  up  his  cap,  and 
ran  out  of  the  house.  With  rapid,  unsteady 
steps,  he  walked  about  the  town,  walked  on  and 
on,  and  found  himself  at  the  city  gates.  Sud- 
denly there  was  the  rattle  of  wheels,  the  tramp 
of  horses  along  the  street.  .  .  .  Some  one  called 
him  by  name.  He  raised  his  head  and  saw  a 
big,  old-fashioned  wagonette.  In  the  wagon- 
ette facing  him  sat  Mr.  Bublitsyn  between  two 
young  ladies,  the  daughters  of  Mr.  Tiutiurov. 
Both  the  girls  were  dressed  exactly  alike, 
as  though  in  outward  sign  of  their  immutable 
affection  ;  both  smiled  pensively,  and  carried 
their  heads  on  one  side  with  a  languid  grace. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  carriage  appeared  the 
wide  straw  hat  of  their  excellent  papa;  and 
from  time  to  time  his  round,  plump  neck  pre- 
sented itself  to  the  gaze  of  spectators.  Beside 
his  straw  hat  rose  the  mob-cap  of  his  spouse. 
The  very  attitude  of  both  the  parents  was  a 
sufficient  proof  of  their  sincere  goodwill  towards 
the  young  man  and  their  confidence  in  him. 
And  Bublitsyn  obviously  was  aware  of  their 
flattering  confidence  and  appreciated  it.  He 
was,  of  course,  sitting  in  an  unconstrained  posi- 
tion, and  talking  and  laughing  without  con- 
straint ;  but  in  the  very  freedom  of  his  manner 
there  could  be  discerned  a  shade  of  tender, 
touching  respectfulness.  And  the  Tiutiurov 
girls  ?  It  is  hard  to  convey  in  words  all  that 
282 


PYETUSHKOV 

an  attentive  observer  could  trace  in  the  faces  of 
the  two  sisters.  Goodwill  and  gentleness,  and 
discreet  gaiety,  a  melancholy  comprehension 
of  life,  and  a  faith,  not  to  be  shaken,  in  them- 
selves, in  the  lofty  and  noble  destiny  of  man  on 
earth,  courteous  attention  to  their  young  com- 
panion, in  intellectual  endowments  perhaps  not 
fully  their  equal,  but  still  by  the  qualities  of  his 
heart  quite  deserving  of  their  indulgence  .  .  . 
such  were  the  characteristics  and  the  feelings 
reflected  at  that  moment  on  the  faces  of  the 
young  ladies.  Bublitsyn  called  to  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch  for  no  special  reason,  simply  in  the  fulness 
of  his  inner  satisfaction  ;  he  bowed  to  him  with 
excessive  friendliness  and  cordiality.  The 
young  ladies  even  looked  at  him  with  gentle 
amiability,  as  at  a  man  whose  acquaintance 
they  would  not  object  to.  .  .  .  The  good,  sleek, 
quiet  horses  went  by  Ivan  Afanasiitch  at  a 
gentle  trot ;  the  carriage  rolled  smoothly  along 
the  broad  road,  carrying  with  it  good-humoured, 
girlish  laughter;  he  caught  a  final  glimpse  of 
Mr.  Tiutiurov's  hat ;  the  two  outer  horses  turned 
their  heads  on  each  side,  jauntily  stepping  over 
the  short,  green  grass  .  .  .  the  coachman  gave 
a  whistle  of  approbation  and  warning,  the 
carriage  disappeared  behind  some  willows. 

A    long   while    poor   Pyetushkov  remained 
standing  still. 

*  I  'm  a  poor  lonely  creature,'  he  whispered  at 
last  .  .  ,  '  alone  in  the  world/ 
283 


PYETUSHKOV 

A  little  boy  in  tatters  stopped  before  him, 
looked  timidly  at  him,  held  out  his  hand  .  .  . 

*  For  Christ's  sake,  good  gentleman.' 
Pyetushkov  pulled  out  a  copper. 

'For  your  loneliness,  poor  orphan,'  he  said 
with  effort,  and  he  walked  back  to  the  baker's 
shop.  On  the  threshold  of  Vassilissa's  room 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  stopped. 

*  Yes,'  he  thought,  *  these  are  my  friends. 
Here  is  my  family,  this  is  it.  ,  ,  .  And  here 
Bublitsyn  and  there  Bublitsyn.' 

Vassilissa  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  him, 
winding  worsted,  and  carelessly  singing  to  her- 
self ;  she  was  wearing  a  striped  cotton  gown ; 
her  hair  was  done  up  anyhow.  .  .  .  The  room, 
insufferably  hot,  smelt  of  feather  beds  and  old 
rags;  jaunty, reddish-brown  'Prussians' scurried 
rapidly  here  and  there  across  the  walls  ;  on  the 
decrepit  chest  of  drawers,  with  holes  in  it  where 
the  locks  should  have  been,  beside  a  broken 
jar,  lay  a  woman's  shabby  slipper.  .  .  .  Kozlov's 
poem  was  still  where  it  had  fallen  on  the  floor. 
.  ,  .  Pyetushkov  shook  his  head,  folded  his 
arms,  and  went  away.     He  was  hurt. 

At  home  he  called  for  his  things  to  dress. 
Onisim  slouched  off  after  his  better  coat. 
Pyetushkov  had  a  great  desire  to  draw  Onisim 
into  conversation,  but  Onisim  preserved  a  sullen 
silence.  At  last  Ivan  Afanasiitch  could  hold 
out  no  longer. 

*  Why  don't  you  ask  me  where  I  'm  going  ?  * 

284 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  Why,  what  do  I  want  to  know  where  you  *re 
going  for  ? ' 

*  What  for  ?  Why,  suppose  some  one  comes  on 
urgent  business,  and  asks,  "Where 's  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch  ? "  And  then  you  can  tell  him,  "  Ivan 
Afanasiitch  has  gone  here  or  there."  * 

*  Urgent  business.  .  .  .  But  who  ever  does 
come  to  you  on  urgent  business  ?  * 

*  Why,  are  you  beginning  to  be  rude  again  ? 
Again,  hey?' 

Onisim  turned  away,  and  fell  to  brushing  the 
coat. 

*  Really,  Onisim,  you  are  a  most  disagreeable 
person.' 

Onisim  looked  up  from  under  his  brows  at 
his  master. 

*  And  you  're  always  like  this.  Yes,  positively 
always.' 

Onisim  smiled. 

*  But  what 's  the  good  of  my  asking  you 
where  you're  going,  Ivan  Afanasiitch?  As 
though  I  didn't  know  1  To  the  girl  at  the 
baker's  shop ! ' 

'There,  that's  just  where  you're  wrong! 
that's  just  where  you're  mistaken!  Not  to 
her  at  all.  I  don't  intend  going  to  see  the  girl 
at  the  baker's  shop  any  more.' 

Onisim  dropped  his  eyelids  and  brandished 
the  brush.     Pyetushkov  waited  for  his  approba- 
tion ;  but  his  servant  remained  speechless. 
It's  not  the  proper  thing,'  Pyetushkov  went 
28s 


PYETUSHKOV 

on    in    a    severe   voice — *  it 's    unseemly.  ,  ,  . 
Come,  tell  me  what  you  think  ? ' 

*  What  am  I  to  think  ?  It 's  for  you  to  say. 
What  business  have  I  to  think  ? ' 

Pyetushkov  put  on  his  coat.  '  He  doesn't 
believe  me,  the  beast,'  he  thought  to  himself. 

He  went  out  of  the  house,  but  he  did  not  go 
to  see  any  one.  He  walked  about  the  streets. 
He  directed  his  attention  to  the  sunset.  At 
last  a  little  after  eight  o'clock  he  returned  home. 
He  wore  a  smile ;  he  repeatedly  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  as  though  marvelling  at  his  own 
folly.  *  Yes,'  thought  he, '  this  is  what  comes  of 
a  strong  will.  .  .  .' 

Next  day  Pyetushkov  got  up  rather  late. 
He  had  not  passed  a  very  good  night,  did  not 
go  out  all  day,  and  was  fearfully  bored.  Pye- 
tushkov read  through  all  his  poor  books,  and 
praised  aloud  one  story  in  the  Library  of  Good 
Reading.  As  he  went  to  bed,  he  told  Onisim 
to  give  him  his  pipe.  Onisim  handed  him  a 
wretched  pipe.  Pyetushkov  began  smoking ; 
the  pipe  wheezed  like  a  broken-winded  horse. 

*  How  disgusting!'  cried  Ivan  Afanasiitch; 
*  where 's  my  cherry  wood  pipe  ?  ' 

'At  the  baker's  shop,'  Onisim  responded 
tranquilly. 

Pyetushkov  blinked  spasmodically 

*  Well,  you  wish  me  to  go  for  it  ? ' 

*  No,  you  needn't ;  don't  go  ...  no  need, 
don't  go,  do  you  hear  ? ' 

986 


PYETUSHKOV 

'Yes,  sir.' 

The  night  passed  somehow.  In  the  morning 
Onisim,  as  usual,  gave  Pyetushkov  on  the  blue 
sprigged  plate  a  new  white  roll.  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch  looked  out  of  window  and  asked  Onisim  : 
*  You  've  been  to  the  baker's  shop  ? ' 

*  Who 's  to  go,  if  I  don't  ? ' 

*  Ah ! ' 

Pyetushkov  became  plunged  in  meditation. 

*  Tell  me,  please,  did  you  see  any  one  there  ?* 

*  Of  course  I  did.' 

*  Whom  did  you  see  there,  now,  for  instance  ?' 

*  Why,  of  course,  Vassilissa.' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  was  silent.  Onisim  cleared 
the  table,  and  was  just  going  out  of  the  room  .  .  , 

*  Onisim,'  Pyetushkov  cried  faintly. 
'  What  is  it  ? ' 

*  Er  .  .  .  did  she  ask  after  me  ? ' 

*  Of  course  she  didn't.' 

Pyetushkov  set  his  teeth.  *  Yes,'  he  thought, 
'that's  all  it's  worth,  her  love,  indeed.  .  .  .' 
His  head  dropped.  *  Absurd  I  was,  to  be  sure,' 
he  thought  again.  *A  fine  idea  to  read  her 
poetry.  A  girl  like  that !  Why,  she 's  a  fool ! 
Why,  she 's  good  for  nothing  but  to  lie  on  the 
stove  and  eat  pancakes.  Why,  she 's  a  post,  a 
perfect  post ;  an  uneducated  workgirl.' 

'  She 's    never    come,'    he    whispered,    two 

hours   later,   still   sitting   in   the   same    place, 

'she's  never  come.     To  think  of  it;  why,  she 

could  see  that  I  left  her  out  of  temper ;  why, 

287 


PYETUSHKOV 

she  might  know  that  I  was  hurt.  There  *^  love 
for  you !  And  she  did  not  even  ask  if  I  were 
well.  Never  even  said,  "Is  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
quite  well  ? "  She  hasn't  seen  me  for  two 
whole  days — and  not  a  sign.  .  .  .  She  's  even 

again,  maybe,  thought  fit  to  meet  that  Bub 

Lucky  fellow.  Ouf,  devil  take  it,  what  a  fool 
lam!' 

Pyetushkov  got  up,  paced  up  and  down  the 
room  in  silence,  stood  still,  knitted  his  brows 
slightly  and  scratched  his  neck.  *  However,' 
he  said  aloud,  *  I  '11  go  to  see  her.  I  must  see 
what  she 's  about  there.  I  must  make  her  feel 
ashamed.  Most  certainly  ...  I  '11  go.  Onisim  ! 
my  clothes.' 

*  Well,'  he  mused  as  he  dressed,  *  we  shall  see 
what  comes  of  it.  She  may,  I  dare  say,  be 
angry  with  me.  And  after  all,  a  man  keeps 
coming  and  coming,  and  all  of  a  sudden,  for  no 
rhyme  or  reason,  goes  and  gives  up  coming. 
Well,  we  shall  see.' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  went  out  of  the  house,  and 
made  his  way  to  the  baker's  shop.  He  stopped 
at  the  little  gate,  he  wanted  to  straighten  him- 
self out  and  set  himself  to  rights.  .  .  .  Pye- 
tushkov clutched  at  the  folds  of  his  coat  with 
both  hands,  and  almost  pulled  them  out  alto- 
gether. .  .  .  Convulsively  he  twisted  his  tightly 
compressed  neck,  fastened  the  top  hook  of  his 
collar,  drew  a  deep  breath.  .  .  . 

'Why  are  you  standing  there?'  Praskovia 
288 


PYETUSHKOV 

Ivanovna  bawled  to  him  from  the  little  window. 
*  Come  in.' 

Pyetushkov  started,  and  went  in.  Praskovia 
Ivanovna  met  him  in  the  doorway. 

*  Why  didn't  you  come  to  see  us  yesterday, 
my  good  sir?  Was  it,  maybe,  some  ailment 
prevented  you  ? ' 

*  Yes,  I  had  something  of  a  headache  yester- 
day. .  .  / 

*  Ah,  you  should  have  put  cucumber  on  your 
temples,  my  good  sir.  It  would  have  taken  it 
away  in  a  twinkling.  Is  your  head  aching 
now?' 

'No,  it's  not' 

*  Ah  well,  and  thank  Thee,  O  Lord,  for  it' 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  went  off  into  the  back  room. 

Vassilissa  saw  him, 

*  Ah !  good  day,  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 

*  Good  day,  Vassilissa  Ivanovna.* 

'Where  have  you  put  the  tap,  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch ? ' 

'  Tap  ?  what  tap  ? ' 

*  The  wine-tap  .  .  .  our  tap.  You  must  have 
taken  it  home  with  you.  You  are  such  a  one 
.  .  .  Lord,  forgive  us.  .  .  .' 

Pyetushkov  put  on  a  dignified  and  chilly  air. 

*  I  will  direct  my  man  to  look.  Seeing  that 
I  was  not  here  yesterday,'  he  pronounced 
significantly.  .  .  . 

*  Ah,  why,  to  be  sure,  you  weren't  here 
yesterday,'        Vassilissa     squatted    down     on 

T  2S0 


PYETUSHKOV 

her    heels,    and     began    rummaging    in    the 
chest.  ... 

'  Aunt,  hi !  aunt  I  * 

*What  sa-ay?' 

*  Have  you  taken  my  neckerchief?' 
' What  neckerchief? ' 

*  Why,  the  yellow  one/ 

*  The  yellow  one  ?  ' 

*  Yes,  the  yellow,  figured  one/ 

*  No,  I  Ve  not  taken  it.' 
Pyetushkov  bent  down  to  Vassilissa. 

*  Listen  to  me,  Vassilissa ;  listen  to  what  I 
am  saying  to  you.  It  is  not  a  matter  of  taps 
or  of  neckerchiefs  just  now ;  you  can  attend  to 
such  trifles  another  time.' 

Vassilissa  did  not  budge  from  her  position ; 
she  only  lifted  her  head. 

*You  just  tell  me,  on  your  conscience,  do 
you  love  me  or  not  ?  That 's  what  I  want  to 
know,  once  for  all.' 

'Ah,  what  a  one  you  are,  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch.  ,  .  .  Well,  then,  of  course.' 

'  If  you  love  me,  how  was  it  you  didn't  come 
to  see  me  yesterday?  Had  you  no  time? 
Well,  you  might  have  sent  to  find  out  if  I  were 
ill,  as  I  didn't  turn  up.  But  it's  little  you 
cared.  I  might  die,  I  dare  say,  you  wouldn't 
grieve.' 

*Ah,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  one  can't  be  always 
thinking   of  one  thing,  one's  got  one's  work 

to  do.' 

290 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  To  be  sure,'  responded  Pyetushkov ;  *  but  all 
the  same  .  .  .  And  it's  improper  to  laugh  at 
your  elders.  ...  It 's  not  right.  Moreover,  it 's 
as  well  in  certain  cases  .  ,  .  But  where 's  my 
pipe  ? ' 

'  Here 's  your  pipe. 

Pyetushkov  began  smoking. 


VII 


Several  days  slipped  by  again,  apparently 
rather  tranquilly.  But  a  storm  was  getting 
nearer.  Pyetushkov  suffered  tortures,  was 
jealous,  never  took  his  eyes  off  Vassilissa, 
kept  an  alarmed  watch  over  her,  annoyed  her 
horribly.  Behold,  one  evening,  Vassilissa 
dressed  herself  with  more  care  than  usual, 
and,  seizing  a  favourable  instant,  sallied  off  to 
make  a  visit  somewhere.  Night  came  on,  she 
had  not  returned.  Pyetushkov  at  sunset  went 
home  to  his  lodgings,  and  at  eight  o'clock  in 
the  morning  ran  to  the  baker's  shop.  .  .  ,  Vassi- 
lissa had  not  come  in.  With  an  inexpressible 
sinking  at  his  heart,  he  waited  for  her  right  up 
to  dinner-time.  .  .  .  They  sat  down  to  the  table 
without  her.  .  .  . 

*  Whatever  can  have  become  of  her  ? '  Pras- 
kovia  Ivanovna  observed  serenely.  .  .  . 

*  You  spoil  her,  you  simply  spoil  her  utterly  ! ' 
Pyetushkov  repeated,  in  despair. 

291 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  Eh !  my  good  sir,  there  *s  no  looking  after 
a  girl ! '  responded  Praskovia  Ivanovna.  *  Let 
her  go  her  way !  So  long  as  she  does  her 
work.  .  .  .  Why  shouldn't  folks  enjoy  them- 
selves? .  .  / 

A  cold  shudder  ran  over  Pyetushkov.  At 
last,  towards  evening,  Vassilissa  made  her 
appearance.  This  was  all  he  was  waiting  for. 
Majestically  Pyetushkov  rose  from  his  seat, 
folded  his  arms,  scowled  menacingly.  .  .  .  But 
Vassilissa  looked  him  boldly  in  the  face, 
laughed  impudently,  and  before  he  could  utter 
a  single  word  she  went  quickly  into  her  own 
room,  and  locked  herself  in.  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
opened  his  mouth,  looked  in  amazement  at 
Praskovia  Ivanovna.  .  .  .  Praskovia  Ivanovna 
cast  down  her  eyes.  Ivan  Afanasiitch  stood 
still  a  moment,  groped  after  his  cap,  put  it 
on  askew,  and  went  out  without  closing  his 
mouth. 

He  reached  home,  took  up  a  leather  cushion, 
and  with  it  flung  himself  on  the  sofa,  with  his 
face  to  the  wall.  Onisim  looked  in  out  of  the 
passage,  went  into  the  room,  leaned  his  back 
against  the  door,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and 
crossed  his  legs. 

*  Are  you  unwell,  Ivan  Afanasiitch  ? '  he  asked 
Pyetushkov. 

Pyetushkov  made  no  answer. 

*  Shall  I  go  for  the  doctor?'  Onisim  con- 
tinued, after  a  brief  pause. 

292 


1>YETUSHK0V 

*  I  'm  quite  well.  ...  Go  away,'  Ivan  Afana- 
siitch  articulated  huskily. 

*  Well  ?  ...  no,  you  're  not  well,  Ivan 
Afanasiitch.  ...  Is  this  what  you  call  being 
well  ? ' 

Pyetushkov  did  not  speak. 

*  Just  look  at  yourself.  You  've  grown  so 
thin,  that  you're  simply  not  like  yourself. 
And  what 's  it  all  about  ?  It 's  enough  to 
turn  one's  brain  to  think  of  it.  And  you  a 
gentleman  born,  too  ! ' 

Onisim  paused.     Pyetushkov  did  not  stir. 

*  Is  that  the  way  gentlemen  go  on  ?  They  'd 
amuse  themselves  a  bit,  to  be  sure  .  .  .  why 
shouldn't  they  .  .  they'd  amuse  themselves, 
and  then  drop  it.  .  .  .  They  may  well  say. 
Fall  in  love  with  Old  Nick,  and  you  '11  think 
him  a  beauty.' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  merely  writhed. 

*  Well,  it 's  really  like  this,  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 
If  any  one  had  said  this  and  that  of  you,  and 
your  goings  on,  why,  I  would  have  said,  "  Get 
along  with  you,  you  fool,  what  do  you  take  me 
for  ?  "  Do  you  suppose  I  'd  have  believed  it  ? 
Why,  as  it  is,  I  see  it  with  my  own  eyes,  and 
I  can't  believe  it.  Worse  than  this  nothing 
can  be.  Has  she  put  some  spell  over  you  or 
what?  Why,  what  is  there  in  her?  If  you 
come  to  consider,  she 's  below  contempt,  really. 
She  can't  even  speak  as  she  ought.  ,  ,  .  She 's 
simply  a  baggage  !     Worse,  even  I ' 

293 


PYETUSHKOV 

*Go  away,'  Ivan  Afanasiitch  moaned  into 
the  cushion. 

*  No,  I  'm  not  going  away,  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 
Who  *s  to  speak,  if  I  don't  ?  Why,  upon  my 
word !  Here,  you  're  breaking  your  heart 
now  .  .  .  and  over  what  ?  Eh,  over  what  ?  tell 
me  that ! ' 

*  Oh,  go  away,  Onisim,'  Pyetushkov  moaned 
again.  Onisim,  for  propriety's  sake,  was  silent 
for  a  little  while. 

*  And  another  thing,'  he  began  again,  *  she 's 
no  feeling  of  gratitude  whatever.  Any  other 
girl  wouldn't  know  how  to  do  enough  to  please 
you ;  while  she !  .  .  .  she  doesn't  even  think  of 
you.  Why,  it 's  simply  a  disgrace.  Why,  the 
things  people  are  saying  about  you,  one  cannot 
repeat  them,  they  positively  cry  shame  on  me. 
If  I  could  have  known  beforehand,  I'd  have.  . .  .' 

*  Oh,  go  away,  do,  devil ! '  shrieked  Pyetush- 
kov, not  stirring  from  his  place,  however,  nor 
raising  his  head. 

*  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  for  mercy's  sake,'  pursued 
the  ruthless  Onisim.  *  I  'm  speaking  for  your 
good.  Despise  her,  Ivan  Afanasiitch ;  you 
simply  break  it  off.  Listen  to  me,  or  else  I  '11 
fetch  a  wise  woman  ;  she  '11  break  the  spell  in 
no  time.  You  '11  laugh  at  it  yourself,  later  on  ; 
you  '11  say  to  me,  "  Onisim,  why,  it 's  marvellous 
how  such  things  happen  sometimes ! "  You  just 
consider  yourself:  girls  like  her,  they're  like 
dogs  .  .  .  you  've  only  to  whistle  to  them.  .  .  .' 

294 


PYETUSHKOV 

Like  one  frantic,  Pyetushkov  jumped  up  from 
the  sofa  .  .  .  but,  to  the  amazement  of  Onisim, 
who  was  already  lifting  both  hands  to  the  level 
of  his  cheeks,  he  sat  down  again,  as  though 
some  one  had  cut  away  his  legs  from  under 
him.  .  .  .  Tears  were  rolling  down  his  pale 
face,  a  tuft  of  hair  stood  up  straight  on  the  top 
of  his  head,  his  eyes  looked  dimmed  .  .  .  his 
drawn  lips  were  quivering  .  .  .  his  head  sank 
on  his  breast. 

Onisim  looked  at  Pyetushkov  and  plumped 
heavily  down  on  his  knees. 

*Dear  master,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,'  he  cried, 
*  your  honour  !  Be  pleased  to  punish  me.  I  'm 
a  fool.  I  've  troubled  you,  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 
.  .  .  How  did  I  dare !  Be  pleased  to  punish 
me,  your  honour.  ...  It's  not  worth  your 
while  to  weep  over  my  silly  words  .  ,  .  dear 
master.     Ivan  Afanasiitch  .  ,  .' 

But  Pyetushkov  did  not  even  look  at  his 
servant ;  he  turned  away  and  buried  himself  in 
the  corner  of  the  sofa  again. 

Onisim  got  up,  went  up  to  his  master,  stood 
over  him,  and  twice  he  tugged  at  his  own  hair. 

*  Wouldn't  you  like  to  undress,  sir  .  .  .  you 
should  go  to  bed  .  .  ,  you  should  take  some 
raspberry  tea  .  .  .  don't  grieve,  please  your 
honour.  .  <  .  It 's  only  half  a  trouble,  it 's  all 
nothing  .  .  .  it'll  be  all  right  in  the  end,'  he 
said  to  him  every  two  minutes.  .  .  . 

But  Pyetushkov  did  not  get  up  from  the 
29s 


PYETUSHKOV 

sofa,  and  only  twitched  his  shoulders  now  and 
then,  and  drew  up  his  knees  to  his  stomach.  .  .  , 

Onisim  did  not  leave  his  side  all  night.  To- 
wards morning  Pyetushkov  fell  asleep,  but  he 
did  not  sleep  long.  At  seven  o'clock  he  got  up 
from  the  sofa,  pale,  dishevelled,  and  exhausted, 
and  asked  for  tea. 

Onisim  with  amazing  eagerness  and  speed 
brought  the  samovar. 

*  Ivan  Afanasiitch,'  he  began  at  last,  in  a 
timid  voice,  *  your  honour  is  not  angry  with  me?' 

'Why  should  I  be  angry  with  you,  Onisim?' 
answered  poor  Pyetushkov.  *You  were  per- 
fectly right  yesterday,  and  I  quite  agreed  with 
you  in  everything.' 

*  I  only  spoke  through  my  devotion  to  you, 
Ivan  Afanasiitch.* 

*  I  know  that' 

Pyetushkov  was  silent  and  hung  his  head. 
Onisim  saw  that  things  were  in  a  bad  way. 

*  Ivan  Afanasiitch,'  he  said  suddenly. 
'Well?' 

*  Would  you  like  me  to  fetch  Vassilissa 
here?' 

Pyetushkov  flushed  red. 

*  No, Onisim,  I  don't  wish  it.  (*  Yes,  indeed  !  as 
if  she  would  come ! '  he  thought  to  himself) 
One  must  be  firm.  It  is  all  nonsense.  Yester- 
day, I  ...  It's  a  disgrace.  You  are  right. 
One  must  cut  it  all  short,  once  for  all,  as  they 
say.     Isn't  that  true?' 

3Q6 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  It 's  the  gospel  truth  your  honour  speaks, 
Ivan  Afanasiitch.' 

Pyetushkov  sank  again  into  reverie.  He 
wondered  at  himself,  he  did  not  seem  to  know 
himself.  He  sat  without  stirring  and  stared 
at  the  floor.  Thoughts  whirled  round  within 
him,  like  smoke  or  fog,  while  his  heart  felt 
empty  and  heavy  at  once. 

*  But  what 's  the  meaning  of  it,  after  all/  he 
thought  sometimes,  and  again  he  grew  calmer. 
*  It 's  nonsense,  silliness  !  *  he  said  aloud,  and 
passed  his  hand  over  his  face,  shook  himself, 
and  his  hand  dropped  again  on  his  knee,  his 
eyes  again  rested  on  the  floor. 

Intently  and  mournfully  Onisim  kept  watch 
on  his  master. 

Pyetushkov  lifted  his  head. 

'Tell  me,  Onisim/  he  began,  *is  it  true,  are 
there  really  such  witches'  spells  ? ' 

'  There  are,  to  be  sure  there  are/  answered 
Onisim,  as  he  thrust  one  foot  forward.  *  Does 
your  honour  know  the  non  -  commissioned 
officer,  Krupovaty?  .  .  .  His  brother  was  ruined 
by  witchcraft.  He  was  bewitched  to  love  an 
old  woman,  a  cook,  if  your  honour  only  can 
explain  that !  They  gave  him  nothing  but  a 
morsel  of  rye  bread,  with  a  muttered  spell,  of 
course.  And  Krupovaty's  brother  simply  lost 
his  heart  to  the  cook,  he  fairly  ran  after  the 
cook,  he  positively  adored  her — couldn't  keep 
his  eyes  off  her.  She  might  tell  him  to  do 
297 


PYETUSHKOV 

anything,  he  'd  obey  her  on  the  spot.  She  'd 
even  make  a  joke  of  him  before  other  people, 
before  strangers.  Well,  she  drove  him  into  a 
decline,  at  last.  And  so  it  was  Krupovaty's 
brother  died.  And  you  know,  she  was  a  cook, 
and  an  old  woman  too,  very  old.  (Onisim  took 
a  pinch  of  snuff.)  Confound  the  lot  of  them, 
these  girls  and  women-folk  ! ' 

*She  doesn't  care  for  me  a  bit,  that's  clear, 
at  last;  that's  beyond  all  doubt,  at  last,' 
Pyetushkov  muttered  in  an  undertone,  gesti- 
culating with  his  head  and  hands  as  though 
he  were  explaining  to  a  perfectly  extraneous 
person  some  perfectly  extraneous  fact. 

*Yes,'  Onisim  resumed,  *  there  are  women 
like  that' 

*  There  are,*  listlessly  repeated  Pyetushkov,  in 
a  tone  half  questioning,  half  perplexed. 

Onisim  looked  intently  at  his  master. 

*  Ivan  Afanasiitch,'  he  began,  *  wouldn't  you 
have  a  snack  of  something  ? ' 

'Wouldn't  I  have  a  snack  of  something?' 
repeated  Pyetushkov. 

*  Or  may  be  you  'd  like  to  have  a  pipe  ? ' 

*  To  have  a  pipe  ?  '  repeated  Pyetushkov. 
*So  this  is  what  it's  coming  to,'  muttered 

Onisim.    *  It 's  gone  deep,  it  seems.' 


398 


I»YETUSHKOV 


VIII 


The  creak  of  boots  resounded  in  the  passage, 
and  then  there  was  heard  the  usual  suppressed 
cough  which  announces  the  presence  of  a 
person  of  subordinate  position.  Onisim  went 
out  and  promptly  came  back,  accompanied  by 
a  diminutive  soldier  with  a  little,  old  woman's 
face,  in  a  patched  cloak  yellow  with  age,  and 
wearing  neither  breeches  nor  cravat.  Pyetush- 
kov  was  startled  ;  while  the  soldier  drew  him- 
self up,  wished  him  good  day,  and  handed  him 
a  large  envelope  bearing  the  government  seal. 
In  this  envelope  was  a  note  from  the  major 
in  command  of  the  garrison :  he  called  upon 
Pyetushkov  to  come  to  him  without  fail  or 
delay. 

Pyetushkov  turned  the  note  over  in  his 
hands,  and  could  not  refrain  from  asking 
the  messenger,  did  he  know  why  the  major 
desired  his  presence,  though  he  was  very  well 
aware  of  the  utter  futility  of  his  question. 

*  We  cannot  tell ! '  the  soldier  cried,  with  great 
effort,  yet  hardly  audibly,  as  though  he  were 
half  asleep. 

'Isn't  he  summoning  the  other  officers?' 
Pyetushkov  pursued. 

'  We  cannot  tell,'  the  soldier  cried  a  second 
time,  in  just  the  same  voice. 

*  All  right,  you  can  go,'  pronounced  Pye- 
tushkov. 

299 


PYETUSHKOV 

The  soldier  wheeled  round  to  the  left, 
scraping  his  foot  as  he  did  so,  and  slapping 
himself  below  the  spine  (this  was  considered 
smart  in  the  twenties),  withdrew. 

Pyetushkov  exchanged  glances  with  Onisim, 
who  at  once  assumed  a  look  of  anxiety.  With- 
out a  word  Ivan  Afanasiitch  set  off  to  the 
major's. 

The  major  was  a  man  of  sixty,  corpulent 
and  clumsily  built,  with  a  red  and  bloated 
face,  a  short  neck,  and  a  continual  trembling  in 
his  fingers,  resulting  from  excessive  indulgence 
in  strong  drink.  He  belonged  to  the  class  of 
so-called  'bourbons,'  that's  to  say,  soldiers 
risen  from  the  ranks ;  had  learned  to  read  at 
thirty,  and  spoke  with  difficulty,  partly  from 
shortness  of  breath,  partly  from  inability  to 
follow  his  own  thought.  His  temperament 
exhibited  all  the  varieties  known  to  science : 
in  the  morning,  before  drinking,  he  was  melan- 
choly ;  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  choleric ;  and 
in  the  evening,  phlegmatic,  that  is  to  say, 
he  did  nothing  at  that  time  but  snore  and 
grunt  till  he  was  put  to  bed.  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
appeared  before  him  during  the  choleric  period. 
He  found  him  sitting  on  a  sofa,  in  an  open 
dressing-gown,  with  a  pipe  between  his  teeth. 
A  fat,  crop-eared  cat  had  taken  up  her  position 
beside  him. 

*  Aha !  he 's  come ! '  growled  the  major,  cast- 
ing a  sidelong  glance  out  of  his  pewtery  eyes 
300 


PYETUSHKOV 

upon  Pyetushkov,  and  not  stirring  from  his 
place.  *  Sit  down.  Well,  I  'm  going  to  give 
you  a  talking  to.  I  've  wanted  to  get  hold  of 
you  this  long  while.' 

Pyetushkov  sank  into  a  chair. 

*  For,'  the  major  began,  with  an  unexpected 
lurch  of  his  whole  body, '  you  're  an  officer,  d'  ye 
see,  and  so  you've  got  to  behave  yourself 
according  to  rule.  If  you'd  been  a  soldier,  I'd 
have  flogged  you,  and  that 's  all  about  it,  but, 
as  'tis,  you  're  an  officer.  Did  any  one  ever  see 
the  like  of  it  ?  Disgracing  yourself— -is  that  a 
nice  thing?' 

*  Allow  me  to  know  to  what  these  remarks 
may  refer?'  Pyetushkov  was  beginning.  .  .  . 

*  I  '11  have  no  arguing !  I  dislike  that  beyond 
everything.  I  've  said  :  I  dislike  it;  and  that's 
all  about  it !  Ugh — why,  your  hooks  are  not 
in  good  form  even  ; — what  a  disgrace  !  He  sits, 
day  in  and  day  out,  at  the  baker's  shop ;  and 
he  a  gentleman  born  !  There 's  a  petticoat  to 
be  found  there — and  so  there  he  sits.  Let  her 
go  to  the  devil,  the  petticoat!  Why,  they 
do  say  he  puts  the  bread  in  the  oven.  It 's 
a  stain  on  the  uniform  ...  so  it  is  ! ' 

*  Allow  me  to  submit,'  articulated  Pyetushkov 
with  a  cold  chill  at  his  heart,  *  that  all  this,  as 
far  as  I  can  make  out,  refers  to  my  private  life, 
so  to  say.  .  .  .' 

*  No  arguing  with  me,  I  tell  you !  Private 
life,  he  protests,  too !     If  it  had  been  a  matter 

301 


PYETUSHKOV 

of  the  service  I  'd  have  sent  you  straight  to  the 
guard- room !  Alley,  marsheer!  Because  of 
the  oath.  Why,  there  was  a  whole  birch  copse, 
maybe,  used  upon  my  back,  so  I  should  think 
I  know  the  service  ;  every  rule  of  discipline 
I  'm  very  well  up  in.  And  I  'd  have  you  to 
understand,  I  say  this  just  for  the  honour  of 
the  uniform.  You're  disgracing  the  uniform 
...  so  you  are.  I  say  this  like  a  father  .  ,  . 
yes.  Because  all  that's  put  in  my  charge. 
I  've  to  answer  for  it.  And  you  dare  to  argue 
too ! '  the  major  shrieked  with  sudden  fury,  and 
his  face  turned  purple,  and  he  foamed  at  the 
mouth,  while  the  cat  put  its  tail  in  the  air  and 
jumped  down  to  the  ground.  *Why,  do  you 
know  .  .  .  why,  do  you  know  what  I  can  do  ? 
.  .  .  I  can  do  anything,  anything,  anything! 
Why,  do  you  know  whom  you  're  talking  to  ? 
Your  superior  officer  gives  you  orders  and  you 
argue !  Your  superior  officer  . . .  your  superior 
officer.  .  .  .* 

Here  the  major  positively  choked  and 
spluttered,  while  poor  Pyetushkov  could  only 
draw  himself  up  and  turn  pale,  sitting  on  the 
very  edge  of  his  chair. 

*  I  must  have '  .  .  .  the  major  continued,  with 
an  imperious  wave  of  his  trembling  hand,  *  I 
must  have  everything  .  ,  .  up  to  the  mark! 
Conduct  first-class !  I  'm  not  going  to  put  up 
with  any  irregularities  !  You  can  make  friends 
with  whom  you  like,  that  makes  no  odds  to 
302 


PYETUSHKOV 

me  1  But  if  you  are  a  gentleman,  why,  act  as 
such  .  .  .  behave  like  one !  No  putting  bread 
in  the  oven  for  me !  No  calling  a  draggletail 
old  woman  auntie!  No  disgracing  the  uniform! 
Silence  !     No  arguing  ! ' 

The  major's  voice  broke.  He  took  breath, 
and  turning  towards  the  door  into  the  passage, 
bawled,  'Frolka,  you  scoundrel!   The  herrings!' 

Pyetushkov  rose  hurriedly  and  darted  away, 
almost  upsetting  the  page-boy,  who  ran  to 
meet  him,  carrying  some  sliced  herring  and  a 
stout  decanter  of  spirits  on  an  iron  tray. 

'Silence!  No  arguing!'  sounded  after 
Pyetushkov  the  disjointed  exclamations  of  his 
exasperated  superior  officer. 


IX 


A  QUEER  sensation  overmastered  Ivan  Afana- 
3iitch  when,  at  last,  he  found  himself  in  the 
street. 

'  Why  am  I  walking  as  it  were  in  a  dream  ?  * 
he  thought  to  himself.  '  Am  I  out  of  my  mind, 
or  what?  Why,  it  passes  all  belief,  at  last. 
Come,  damn  it,  she's  tired  of  me,  come,  and 
I  've  grown  tired  of  her,  come,  and  ,  ,  .  What 
is  there  out  of  the  way  in  that  ? ' 

Pyetushkov  frowned. 

*  I  must  put  an  end  to  it,  once  for  all,'  he 
said  almost  aloud.  '  I  '11  go  and  speak  out 
303 


PYETUSHKOV 

decisively  for  the  last  time,  so  that  it  may  never 
come  up  again.' 

Pyetushkov  made  his  way  with  rapid  step 
to  the  baker's  shop.  The  nephew  of  the  hired 
man,  Luka,  a  little  boy,  friend  and  confidant  of 
the  goat  that  lived  in  the  yard,  darted  swiftly 
to  the  little  gate,  directly  he  caught  sight  of 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  in  the  distance. 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  came  out  to  meet 
Pyetushkov. 

*  Is  your  niece  at  home  ? '  asked  Pyetushkov. 

*  No,  sir.* 

Pyetushkov  was  inwardly  relieved  at  Vassi- 
lissa's  absence. 

*  I  came  to  have  a  few  words  with  you, 
Praskovia  Ivanovna.* 

'What  about,  my  good  sir?* 

*  I  *11  tell  you.  You  comprehend  that  after 
all  .  .  ,  that  has  passed  .  .  .  after  such,  so  to 
say,  behaviour  (Pyetushkov  was  a  little  con- 
fused) ...  in  a  word  .  .  ,  But,  pray,  don't 
be  angry  with  me,  though.* 

*  Certainly  not,  sir.* 

*On  the  contrary,  enter  into  my  position, 
Praskovia  Ivanovna.* 

*  Certainly,  sir.* 

^You're  a  reasonable  woman,  you *11  under- 
stand of  yourself,  that  .  .  .  that  I  can't  go  on 
coming  to  see  you  any  more.' 

*  Certainly,  sir,'  Praskovia  Ivanovna  repeated 
slowly. 

304 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  I  assure  you  I  greatly  regret  it ;  I  confess 
it  is  positively  painful  to  me,  genuinely  pain- 
ful .  .  / 

'You  know  best,  sir,'  Praskovia  Ivanovna 
rejoined  serenely.  '  It 's  for  you  to  decide, 
sir.  And,  oh,  if  you  '11  allow  me,  I  '11  give  you 
your  little  account,  sir.' 

Pyetushkov  had  not  at  all  anticipated  such 
a  prompt  acquiescence.  He  had  not  desired 
acquiescence  at  all ;  he  had  only  wanted  to 
frighten  Praskovia  Ivanovna,  and  above  all 
Vassilissa.     He  felt  wretched. 

*  I  know,'  be  began,  *  this  will  not  be  dis- 
agreeable to  Vassilissa ;  on  the  contrary,  I 
believe  she  will  be  glad.' 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  got  out  her  reckoning 
beads,  and  began  rattling  the  counters. 

*  On  the  other  hand,'  continued  Pyetushkov, 
growing  more  and  more  agitated,  '  if  Vassilissa 
were,  for  instance,  to  give  an  explanation  of 
her  behaviour  .  .  .  possibly.  .  .  .  Though,  of 
course  ...  I  don't  know,  possibly,  I  might 
perceive  that  after  all  there  was  no  great 
matter  for  blame  in  it' 

'  There 's  thirty-seven  roubles  and  forty 
kopecks  in  notes  to  your  account,  sir,' 
observed  Praskovia  Ivanovna.  *  Here,  would 
you  be  pleased  to  go  through  it  ? ' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  made  no  reply. 

'Eighteen  dinners  at  seventy  kopecks  each  ; 
twelve  roubles  sixty  kopecks.' 
u  305 


PYETUSHKOV 

'  And  so  we  are  to  part,  Praskovia  Ivanovna.' 

*If  so  it  must  be,  sir.  Things  do  turn 
out  so.  Twelve  samovars  at  ten  kopecks 
each  .  .  .' 

'But  you  might  just  tell  me,  Praskovia 
Ivanovna,  where  it  was  Vassilissa  went,  and 
what  it  was  she  .  ,  .* 

'  Oh,  I  never  asked  her,  sir.  .  .  .  One  rouble 
twenty  kopecks  in  silver.' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  sank  into  meditation. 

*Kvas  and  effervescing  drinks,'  pursued 
Praskovia  Ivanovna,  holding  the  counters 
apart  on  the  frame  not  with  her  first,  but 
her  third  finger,  *  half  a  rouble  in  silver. 
Sugar  and  rolls  for  tea,  half  a  rouble. 
Four  packets  of  tobacco  bought  by  your 
orders,  eighty  kopecks  in  silver.  To  the  tailor 
Kuprian  Apollonov  .  .  .* 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  suddenly  raised  his  head, 
put  out  his  hand  and  mixed  up  the  counters. 

*  What  are  you  about,  my  good  man  ? '  cried 
Praskovia  Ivanovna.     *  Don't  you  trust  me  ? ' 

*  Praskovia  Ivanovna,'  replied  Pyetushkov, 
with  a  hurried  smile,  *  I 've  thought  better  of 
it.  I  was  only,  you  know  ,  .  .  joking.  We'd 
better  remain  friends  and  go  on  in  the  old  way. 
What  nonsense  it  is !  How  can  we  separate — 
tell  me  that,  please  ?  * 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  looked  down  and  made 
him  no  reply. 

*Come,  we've   been   talking  nonsense,  and 
306 


PYETUSHKOV 

there 's  an  end  of  it/  pursued  Ivan  Afanasiitch, 
walking  up  and  down  the  room,  rubbing  his 
hands,  and,  as  it  were,  resuming  his  ancient 
rights.  *  Amen  !  and  now  I  'd  better  have  a 
pipe.' 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  still  did  not  move  from 
her  place.  .  .  . 

*  I  see  you  are  angry  with  me,'  said  Pye- 
tushkov.  '  I  Ve  offended  you,  perhaps.  Well ! 
well !  forgive  me  generously.' 

'How  could  you  offend  me,  my  good  sir? 
No  offence  about  it.  .  .  .  Only,  please,  sir,' 
added  Praskovia  Ivanovna,  bowing,  *be  so 
good  as  not  to  go  on  coming  to  us.' 

'What?' 

'  It 's  not  for  you,  sir,  to  be  friends  with  us, 
your  honour.     So,  please,  do  us  the  favour  . .  .' 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  went  on  bowing. 

'What  ever  for?'  muttered  the  astounded 
Pyetushkov. 

*  Oh,  nothing,  sir.     For  mercy's  sake  .  .  .' 

'  No,  Praskovia  Ivanovna,  you  must  explain 
this !  .  .  .' 

*  Vassilissa  asks  you.  She  says,  **  I  thank 
you,  thank  you  very  much,  and  from  my 
heart;  only  for  the  future,  your  honour,  give 
us  up."' 

Praskovia  Ivanovna  bowed  down  almost  to 
Pyetushkov's  feet. 

'Vassilissa,  you  say,  begs  me  not  to  come?* 
*Just  so,  your  honour.     When  your  honour 
307 


PYETUSHKOV 

came  in  to-day,  and  said  what  you  did,  that 
you  didn't  wish,  you  said,  to  visit  us  any  more, 
I  felt  relieved,  sir,  that  I  did ;  thinks  I,  Well, 
thank  God,  how  nicely  it's  all  come  about! 
But  for  that,  I  should  have  had  hard  work  to 
bring  my  tongue  to  say  it.  .  .  .  Be  so  good, 
sir.' 

Pyetushkov  turned  red  and  pale  almost  at 
the  same  instant.  Praskovia  Ivanovna  still 
went  on  bowing.  .  .  . 

*  Very  good,'  Ivan  Afanasiitch  cried  sharply. 
*  Good-bye.' 

He  turned  abruptly  and  put  on  his  cap. 

*  But  the  little  bill,  sir.  .  .  .' 

*  Send  it  .  .  »  my  orderly  shall  pay  you.' 
Pyetushkov  went  with  resolute  steps  out  of 

the  baker's  shop,  and  did  not  even  look  round. 


A  FORTNIGHT  passed.  At  first  Pyetushkov 
bore  up  in  an  extraordinary  way.  He  went  out, 
and  visited  his  comrades,  with  the  exception, 
of  course,  of  Bublitsyn ;  but  in  spite  of  the 
exaggerated  approbation  of  Onisim,  he  almost 
went  out  of  his  mind  at  last  from  wretched- 
ness, jealousy,  and  ennui.  Conversations  with 
Onisim  about  Vassilissa  were  the  only  thing 
that  afforded  him  some  consolation.  The 
conversation  was  always  begun,  'scratched 
308 


PYETUSHKOV 

Up/  by   Pyetushkov;    Onisim   responded   un- 
willingly. 

*  It 's  a  strange  thing,  you  know,'  Ivan 
Afanasiitch  would  say,  for  instance,  as  he  lay 
on  the  sofa,  while  Onisim  stood  in  his  usual 
attitude,  leaning  against  the  door,  with  his 
hands  folded  behind  his  back,  *  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  what  it  was  I  saw  in  that  girl. 
One  would  say  that  there  was  nothing  unusual 
in  her.  It  *s  true  she  has  a  good  heart.  That 
one  can't  deny  her.' 

'  Good  heart,  indeed  ! '  Onisim  would  answer 
with  displeasure. 

*Come,  now,  Onisim,'  Pyetushkov  went  on, 
*one  must  tell  the  truth.  It's  a  thing  of  the 
past  now ;  it 's  no  matter  to  me  now,  but 
justice  is  justice.  You  don't  know  her.  She 's 
very  good-hearted.  Not  a  single  beggar  does 
she  let  pass  by ;  she  '11  always  give,  if  it 's  only 
a  crust  of  bread.  Oh !  And  she 's  of  a  cheer- 
ful temper,  that  one  must  allow,  too.' 

*  What  a  notion !  I  don't  know  where  you 
see  the  cheerful  temper  ! ' 

*  I  tell  you  .  .  .  you  don't  know  her.  And 
she 's  not  mercenary  either  .  ,  .  that 's  another 
thing.  She's  not  grasping,  there's  no  doubt 
of  it.  Why  I  never  gave  her  anything,  as  you 
know.' 

'  That 's  why  she 's  flung  you  over.' 

*  No,  that 's  not  why ! '  responded  Pyetushkov 
with  a  sigh. 

309 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  Why,  you  're  in  love  with  her  to  this  day/ 
Onisim  retorted  malignantly.  *  You  'd  be  glad 
to  go  back  there  as  before.' 

'  That 's  nonsense  you  're  talking.  No,  my  lad, 
you  don't  know  me  either,  I  can  see.  Be  sent 
away,  and  then  go  dancing  attendance-^no, 
thank  you,  I  'd  rather  be  excused.  No,  I  tell 
you.  You  may  believe  me,  it 's  all  a  thing  of 
the  past  now.' 

*  Pray  God  it  be  so  ! ' 

*  But  why  ever  shouldn't  I  be  fair  to  her,  now 
after  all  ?  If  now  I  say  she 's  not  good-looking 
— why,  who  'd  believe  me  ? ' 

*  A  queer  sort  of  good  looks ! ' 

*Well,  find  me, — well,  mention  anybody 
better-looking  .  .  .' 

*  Oh,  you  'd  better  go  back  to  her,  then  !  .  .  .* 

*  Stupid  !  Do  you  suppose  that 's  why  I  say 
so?     Understand  me  .  .  .' 

*  Oh !  I  understand  you,'  Onisim  answered 
with  a  heavy  sigh. 

Another  week  passed  by.  Pyetushkov  had 
positively  given  up  talking  with  his  Onisim, 
and  had  given  up  going  out.  From  morning 
till  night  he  lay  on  the  sofa,  his  hands  behind 
his  head.  He  began  to  get  thin  and  pale,  eat 
unwillingly  and  hurriedly,  and  did  not  smoke 
at  all.  Onisim  could  only  shake  his  head,  as 
he  looked  at  him. 

*  You  're  not  well,  Ivan  Afanasiitch,'  he  said 
to  him  more  than  once. 

310 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  No,  I  'm  all  right,'  replied  Pyetushkov. 

At  last,  one  fine  day  (Onisim  was  not  at 
heme)  Pyetushkov  got  up,  rummaged  in  his 
chest  of  drawers,  put  on  his  cloak,  though  the 
sun  was  rather  hot,  went  stealthily  out  into  the 
street,  and  came  back  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
later.  .  ,  .  He  carried  something  under  his 
cloak.  .  .  . 

Onisim  was  not  at  home.  The  whole  morn- 
ing he  had  been  sitting  in  his  little  room, 
deliberating  with  himself,  grumbling  and 
swearing  between  his  teeth,  and,  at  last,  he 
sallied  off  to  Vassilissa.  He  found  her  in 
the  shop.  Praskovia  Ivanovna  was  asleep  on 
the  stove,  rhythmically  and  soothingly  snoring. 

*Ah,  how  d'ye  do,  Onisim  Sergeitch,'  began 
Vassilissa,  with  a  smile ;  *  why  haven't  we  seen 
anything  of  you  for  so  long  ? ' 

*  Good  day.' 

*Why  are  you  so  depressed?  Would  you 
like  a  cup  of  tea  ? ' 

*It's  not  me  we're  talking  about  now,'  re- 
joined Onisim,  in  a  tone  of  vexation. 

'Why,  what  then?' 

*  What !  Don't  you  understand  me  ?  What  I 
What  have  you  done  to  my  master,  come,  you 
tell  me  that.' 

*  What  I  've  done  to  him  ?  * 

*  What  have  you  done  to  him?  .  . .  You  go  and 
look  at  him.  Why,  before  we  can  look  round, 
he'll  be  in  a  decline,  or  dying  outright,  maybe.' 

311 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  It 's  not  my  fault,  Onisim  Sergeitch.* 

*  Not  your  fault !  God  knows.  Why,  he  *s 
lost  his  heart  to  you.  And  you,  God  forgive 
you,  treated  him  as  if  he  were  one  of  yourselves. 
Don't  come,  says  you,  I  'm  sick  of  you.  Why, 
though  he  's  not  much  to  boast  of,  he 's  a  gentle- 
man anyway.  He's  a  gentleman  born,  you 
know.  .  .  .  Do  you  realise  that  ? ' 

*  But  he 's  such  a  dull  person,  Onisim  Serge- 
itch  .  .  / 

*  Dull !  So  you  must  have  merry  fellows 
about  you !  * 

'  And  it 's  not  so  much  that  he 's  dull :  he  *s 
so  cross,  so  jealous.' 

*  Ah,  you,  you  're  as  haughty  as  a  princess ! 
He  was  in  your  way,  I  dare  say  ! ' 

'  But  you  yourself,  Onisim  Sergeitch,  if  you 
remember,  were  put  out  with  him  about  it; 
"  Why  is  he  such  friends  ?  "  you  said  ;  "  what 's 
he  always  coming  for?"  ' 

*  Well,  was  I  to  be  pleased  with  him  for  it, 
do  you  suppose  ? ' 

'Well,   then,   why   are  you   angry  with  me 
now?     Here,  he*s  given  up  coming.* 
Onisim  positively  stamped. 

*  But  what  am  I  to  do  with  him,  if  he  *s  such 
a  madman  ? '  he  added,  dropping  his  voice. 

*  But  how  am  I  in  fault  ?     What  can  I  do  ?' 

*  I  '11  tell  you  what :  come  with  me  to  him.' 
« God  forbid ! ' 

*  Why  won't  you  come  ? ' 

312 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  But  why  should  I  go  to  see  him  ?  Upon  my 
word ! ' 

'Why?  Why,  because  he  says  you've  a 
good  heart ;  let  me  see  if  you  've  a  good  heart* 

*  But  what  good  can  I  do  him  ? ' 

*0h,  that's  my  business.  You  may  be  sure 
things  are  in  a  bad  way,  since  I  Ve  come  to 
you.  It's  certain  I  could  think  of  nothing 
else  to  do.' 

Onisim  paused  for  a  while. 

*Well,  come  along,  Vassilissa,  please,  come 
along.' 

'Oh,  Onisim  Sergeitch,  I  don't  want  to  be 
friendly  with  him  again  .  ,  .' 

*  Well,  and  you  needn't — who 's  talking  of  it  ? 
You  've  only  to  say  a  couple  of  words  ;  to  say. 
Why  does  your  honour  grieve  ?  .  .  .  give  over. 
.  .  .  That 's  all' 

'  Really,  Onisim  Sergeitch  .  .  .* 
'  Why,  am  I  to  go  down  on  my  knees  to  you, 
eh  ?     All  right — there,  I  'm  on  my  knees  .  .  / 
'  But  really  .  .  .' 

*  Why,  what  a  girl  it  is  !  Even  that  doesn't 
touch  her !  .  .  .' 

Vassilissa  at  last  consented,  put  a  kerchief  on 
her  head,  and  went  out  with  Onisim. 

'  You  wait  here  a  little,  in  the  passage,'  he  said 
to  her,  when  they  reached  Pyetushkov's  abode, 
*and  I  '11  go  and  let  the  master  know  .  .  .' 

He  went  in  to  Ivan  Afanasiitch.  Pyetushkov 
was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  both 
313 


PYETUSHKOV 

hands  in  his  pockets,  his  legs  excessively  wide 
apart ;  he  was  slightly  swaying  backwards  and 
forwards.  His  face  was  hot,  and  his  eyes  were 
sparkling. 

*  Hullo,  Onisim/  he  faltered  amiably,  articu- 
lating the  consonants  very  indistinctly  and 
thickly :  *  hullo,  my  lad.  Ah,  my  lad,  when 
you  weren't  here  ...  he,  he,  he  .  .  .*  Pyetush- 
kov  laughed  and  made  a  sudden  duck  forward 
with  his  nose.  *  Yes,  it 's  an  accomplished  fact, 
he,  he,  he.  .  .  .  However,'  he  added,  trying  to 
assume  a  dignified  air,  *  I  'm  all  right.'  He 
tried  to  lift  his  foot,  but  almost  fell  over,  and 
to  preserve  his  dignity  pronounced  in  a  deep 
bass,  *  Boy,  bring  my  pipe ! ' 

Onisim  gazed  in  astonishment  at  his  master, 
glanced  round.  ...  In  the  window  stood  an 
empty  dark-green  bottle,  with  the  inscription : 

*  Best  Jamaica  rum.' 

*I've  been  drinking,  my  lad,  that's  all, 
Pyetushkov  went  on.  *  I  've  been  and  taken 
it.  I  've  been  drinking,  and  that 's  all  about  it. 
And  where  've  you  been  ?  Tell  us  . .  .  don't  be 
shy  .  .  .  tell  us.     You  're  a  good  hand  at  a  tale.' 

*  Ivan  Afanasiitch,  mercy  on  us !  *  wailed 
Onisim. 

*To  be  sure.  To  be  sure  I  will,'  replied 
Pyetushkov  with  a  vague  wave  of  his   hand. 

*  I  '11  have  mercy  on  you,  and  forgive  you.  I 
forgive  every  one,  I  forgive  you,  and  Vassilissa 
I  forgive,  and  every  one,  every  one.     Yes,  my 

314 


PYETUSHKOV 

lad,  I  've  been  drinking.  .  .  .  Dri-ink-ing,  lad. 
.  .  .  Who 's  that  ? '  he  cried  suddenly,  pointing 
to  the  door  into  the  passage  ;  '  who 's  there  ? ' 

'  Nobody 's  there/  Onisim  answered  hastily  : 
'who  should  be  there  ?  . . .  where  are  you  going?' 

'No,  no/  repeated  Pyetushkov,  breaking  away 
from  Onisim,  *  let  me  go,  I  saw — don't  you  talk 
to  me, — I  saw  there,  let  me  go.  .  .  .  Vassilissa ! ' 
he  shrieked  all  at  once. 

Pyetushkov  turned  pale. 

*  Well  .  .  .  well,  why  don't  you  come  in  ? ' 
he  said  at  last.  '  Come  in,  Vassilissa,  come  in. 
I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you,  Vassilissa.' 

Vassilissa  glanced  at  Onisim  and  came  into 
the  room.  Pyetushkov  went  nearer  to  her. . . , 
He  heaved  deep,  irregular  breaths.  Onisim 
watched  him.  Vassilissa  stole  timid  glances 
at  both  of  them. 

'Sit  down,  Vassilissa/  Ivan  Afanasiitch  began 
again  :  *  thanks  for  coming.  Excuse  my  being 
.  ,  .  what  shall  I  say?  .  .  .  not  quite  fit  to  be 
seen.  I  couldn't  foresee,  couldn't  really,  you'll 
own  that  yourself.  Come,  sit  down,  see  here, 
on  the  sofa  ...  So  ...  I  'm  expressing  myself 
all  right,  I  think.' 

Vassilissa  sat  down. 

'Well,  good  day  to  you,'  Ivan  Afanasiitch 
pursued.  '  Come,  how  are  you  ?  what  have  you 
been  doing  ? ' 

'  I  'm  well,  thank  God,  Ivan  Afanasiitch. 
And  you  ? ' 

115 


PYETUSHKOV 

*  I  ?  as  you  see !  A  ruined  man.  And  ruined 
by  whom  ?  By  you,  Vassilissa.  But  I  'm  not 
angry  with  you.  Only  I  'm  a  ruined  man.  You 
ask  him.  (He  pointed  to  Onisim.)  Don't  you 
mind  my  being  drunk.  I  'm  drunk,  certainly ; 
only  I  'm  a  ruined  man.  That 's  why  I  *m  drunk, 
because  I  'm  a  ruined  man.' 

*  Lord  have  mercy  on  us,  Ivan  Afanasiitch !  * 

*  A  ruined  man,  Vassilissa,  I  tell  you.  You 
may  believe  me.  I  've  never  deceived  you. 
Oh,  and  how 's  your  aunt  ? ' 

*  Very  well,  Ivan  Afanasiitch.     Thank  you.' 
Pyetushkov  began  swaying  violently. 

*But  you're  not  quite  well  to-day,  Ivan 
Afanasiitch.     You  ought  to  lie  down.' 

*  No,  I  'm  quite  well,  Vassilissa.  No,  don't 
say  I  'm  not  well ;  you  'd  better  say  I  've  fallen 
into  evil  ways,  lost  my  morals.  That 's  what 
would  be  just.     I  won't  dispute  that' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  gave  a  lurch  backwards. 
Onisim  ran  forward  and  held  his  master  up. 

*  And  who 's  to  blame  for  it  ?  I  '11  tell  you, 
if  you  like,  who 's  to  blame.  I  'm  to  blame,  in 
the  first  place.  What  ought  I  to  have  said? 
I  ought  to  have  said  to  you :  Vassilissa,  I  love 
you.  Good — well,  will  you  marry  me?  Will 
you  ?  It 's  true  you  're  a  working  girl,  granted ; 
but  that's  all  right.  It's  done  sometimes. 
Why,  there,  I  knew  a  fellow,  he  got  married 
like  that.  Married  a  Finnish  servant-girl.  Took 
and  married  her.     And  you  'd  have  been  happy 

316 


PYETUSHKOV 

With  me.  I  'm  a  good-natured  chap,  I  am ! 
Never  you  mind  my  being  drunk,  you  look  at 
my  heart.  There,  you  ask  this  .  .  .  fellow.  So, 
you  see,  I  turn  out  to  be  in  fault.  And  now, 
of  course,  I  'm  a  ruined  man.' 

Ivan  Afanasiitch  was  more  and  more  in  need 
of  Onisim's  support. 

*  All  the  same,  you  did  wrong,  very  wrong. 
I  loved  you,  I  respected  you  .  .  .  what 's  more, 
I'm  ready  to  go  to  church  with  you  this 
minute.  Will  you?  You've  only  to  say  the 
word,  and  we  '11  start  at  once.  Only  you 
wounded  me  cruelly  .  .  .  cruelly.  You  might 
at  least  have  turned  me  away  yourself — but 
through  your  aunt,  through  that  fat  female! 
Why,  the  only  joy  I  had  in  life  was  you.  I  'm 
a  homeless  man,  you  know,  a  poor  lonely 
creature !  Who  is  there  now  to  be  kind  to  me  ? 
who  says  a  kind  word  to  me  ?  I  'm  utterly 
alone.  Stript  bare  as  a  crow.  You  ask  this  . . .' 
Ivan  Afanasiitch  began  to  cry.  *  Vassilissa, 
listen  what  I  say  to  you,'  he  went  on  :  *  let  me 
come  and  see  you  as  before.  Don't  be  afraid. 
.  .  .  I  '11  be  .  .  .  quiet  as  a  mouse.  You  can 
go  and  see  whom  you  like,  I  '11 — be  all  right : 
not  a  word,  no  protests,  you  know.  Eh?  do 
you  agree?  If  you  like,  I'll  go  down  on  my 
knees.'  (And  Ivan  Afanasiitch  bent  his  knees, 
but  Onisim  held  him  up  under  the  arms.)  *  Let 
me  go !  It 's  not  your  business !  It 's  a  matter 
317 


PYETUSHKOV 

of  the  happiness  of  a  whole  life,  don't  you 
understand,  and  you  hinder  .  .  .' 

Vassilissa  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

*  You  won't  .  .  .  Well,  as  you  will !  God  be 
with  you.  In  that  case,  good-bye !  Good-bye, 
Vassilissa.  I  wish  you  all  happiness  and  pro- 
sperity .  .  .  but  I  .  .  ,  but  I  .  .  .' 

And  Pyetushkov  sobbed  violently.  Onisim 
with  all  his  might  held  him  up  from  behind  . . . 
first  his  face  worked,  then  he  burst  out  crying. 
And  Vassilissa  cried  too. 


XI 

Ten  years  later,  one  might  have  met  in  the 

streets  of  the  little  town  of  O a  thinnish 

man  with  a  reddish  nose,  dressed  in  an  old 
green  coat  with  a  greasy  plush  collar.  He 
occupied  a  small  garret  in  the  baker's  shop,  with 
which  we  are  familiar.  Praskovia  Ivanovna 
was  no  longer  of  this  world.  The  business  was 
carried  on  by  her  niece,  Vassilissa,  and  her 
husband,  the  red-haired,  dim-eyed  baker.  Demo- 
font.  The  man  in  the  green  coat  had  one 
weakness :  he  was  over  fond  of  drink.  He  was, 
however,  always  quiet  when  he  was  tipsy.  The 
reader  has  probably  recognised  him  as  Ivan 
Afanasiitch. 

1847. 


Printed  by  T.  and  A.  Constable,  Printers  to  His  Majesty 
at  the  Edinburgh  University  Press 


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